


He's Been The Definition of Faith

by GalekhXigisi



Series: Faith [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angel Sam Winchester, Anxiety, Archangel Sam Winchester, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parental Bobby Singer, Protective Bobby Singer, Protective Dean Winchester, References to Depression, References to Other Fast Show Characters, Trans Sam Winchester, Vomiting, unsafe binding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-10-23 22:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17692490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalekhXigisi/pseuds/GalekhXigisi
Summary: Sam lives, as everything with a soul had to at some point. But his life is tainted. It's tainted with blood, both his own and others. He blames it on Azazel, whose blood ran through his veins, implanting their cells into his entire being. However, clues are pieced in that maybe he isn't as human as he first thought he was, or even at all.





	1. Chapter 1

It takes time for the baby to adjust, especially when they constantly mumble words that Dean can't dare make sense of. Instead, it confused the Hell out of his childish four-year-old mind. It all seemed like some baby gibberish. The youngest Winchester - _Samantha,_ as they called them - responded perfectly to English, though, learning it much quicker than any of the Winchesters thought she would. More often than not, though, she responds on her gibberish tongue, one that none of them knew, and then had the audacity to be genuinely confused when none of them responded, or why they had blubbered something back in return. Dean suspected that whatever he said to her sounded more like if an adult had spoken to him with only intelligible words being _Taxes_ and _Democracy,_ both spread apart with babble smashed in between.

 

All in all, thankfully, she was an amazingly happy child, even with knowing her mother was long gone and it had somehow been _her_ fault. But when she turned four, something changed in her, leaking out. Her happy exterior was torn into a sad one as if she was constantly mourning, full of sadness and grief. Dean didn't even realize for a while, far too busy with hunts. He skipped school to help out, no longer noticing that her pigtails were constantly being pulled by others until she stood in the hotel room with a pair of scissors in one hand and two messy ponytails in the other, glaring at her father from the bathroom doorway as her father stormed into the motel, ripping both away. She was so aloof when he grabbed her arm, exclaiming that she looked more like a boy now, shoving her in front of the mirror. Her eyes didn't focus on her face or hair like John's were, instead zeroing in on his hand. Bruises were already blooming underneath their skin, yellow and purple mixing with a nasty gray. She complained to her father, screaming that she had already told him of the issue. However, that was the first time Dean had ever witnessed his father hit someone not of the supernatural world, though even then it had never been so much more harshly than he was used to seeing. Sam crumbled on the floor, holding her cheek and biting her already torn through and bleeding lip. Dean doesn't hesitate to help her up after their father leaves for the night. From that day on, things seemed to progress to much more hostile actions passed between the two.

 

To get away from it all, Sam and Dean would occasionally play make-believe, but only when Sam was feeling up for messing around until one of the two managed to injure themselves or each other while John was gone for _“work.”_ Sam always insisted on being Robin when they dwelled into Batman, somehow still terrified of that damn Joker doll, so much so that she ended up setting it on fire in a motel parking lot underneath the concealing blanket of the night. Her harsh glare was enough for Dean to know she had finally had enough, though he still asks how and why. Nothing around her seemed to be even close to starting a fire, no matches or anything in the sorts around. She shrugged, pigtails flipping as she does so. When he asks why, and once again _how_ , she hums, _“I'm secretly Batman, of course,”_ before trotting back into the motel, unaffected by her aloof banter and nonchalant, cryptic answers.

 

Dean would never forget the day she had bargained with their father, voicing that calling her a _he_ would be a much better cover up than _she._ Sam had spoken for hours that it would be a much better alias than _Samantha._ He knew Samantha Winchester was known for surviving a fire, though Samael Winchester wasn't known for anything. Though it took seven months to finally convince John that it genuinely _was_ a better alias than Samantha, the youngest doesn't dare give up. He persists and persists until John caves, though _Samael_ wasn't a name he seemed to recognize in the least. Instead, John agrees on Samuel, which is the rather uncomfortable in between for the youngest, though he doesn't continue bugging because he _knows_ that would result in it all being called off.

 

When he was only eight, he then discovered the supernatural world. He didn't slowly get into it, instead, throwing himself into it like an overzealous puppy, thirsting for more and more information before having it hit him like a glass bottle, _quite literally._ He glares at the two that slowly crawl into the motel. It was so rare for John to take a case so close to where he left his two offspring, but this nest of vampires had flooded into the town and practically taken over so suddenly that John didn't have any other choice. Sam huffs as he takes notes from his book, transferring the text from the page in front of him to the notebook with an old ink pen. “You know, you two _reek_ of blood, right, ” he prompts without being ushered on, nose turned up in disgust. He turns back to his papers as John focuses on him. “You're gonna lead more nests to us if you don't start wiping off everything before coming back. Your blood and scent can be traced back to you and the car. It already stinks like a wet wolf went all chow-town on a heart in there.”

 

“Have you been going through my books, _Samantha,"_  John asks instantly, which causes Sam's eyes to flicker up, especially at the dead name and the sudden stench of liquor that he _knows_ is coming off his father. “Because we know not to go snooping around my books, _right?”_ Same hesitates, lips pursed. _“Right, Samantha?”_

 

“I didn't, ” Sam remarks, “You just stink like iron and the car smells like a wet dog.” John huffs, taking a swig of his bottle. “It's not hard to figure out what you're doing, though. Mom was a hunter, too, and she-” The sound of a bottle shattering makes him stop instantly, inhaling sharply as glass settles. He doesn't move, not as he realizes that it was only heard because it shattered against his head. It wasn't pass out worthy, no, he been hit harder, but it sure as hell was going to leave a migraine and knot or two, he realizes as he brings his hand up to the side of his head. He's greeted with chunks of glass and sharp pains. His eyes dart to Dean's face, one that expresses the pain and terror that Sam is hiding with an expression that blasts confusion.

 

“Don't you _ever_ call her your mother again. Don't even _mention_ her.” John's words slur as he points an accusing finger at the youngest, watching as Sam flinches from the insult he already knows his father is going to use. _“You're_ the reason she's gone.” With that as his closing line, he pushes past his oldest son, moving out of the hotel room and to the car.

 

Sam knows he’ll get his ass handed to him from a hangover in the morning, though he also knows he'll get shitfaced and fuck the first woman he sees once given a chance. It was the same process it always had been, after all. Just because it had become a process doesn't mean he was exactly used to it, much less that he liked it.

 

Tears slipped down his cheeks, mixing with the blood. Dean quickly moves to tend to his little brother. Violence had somehow become a normal occurrence in their lives. A violent John was nicer than a silent one. A silent John brought on the terror of wondering what was going to come next. At least Dean was always there, picking up the pieces of and for his little brother, both literally and metaphorically. And Sam is so God damn thankful as his brother holds him close, silently letting the tears fall down, both Winchesters covered in the sickly yellow light from the shitty motel lamps. They find comfort in each other, sitting silently with a blanket wrapped around the two as the younger slowly calms, some shitty movie playing on the busted up television. But that night, it wasn't caused by the bottle, no, his brain was fine despite the concussion they took care of. There was a harsh realization that this, _this_ fucked up way they were living with abuse running rampant, maybe it wasn't _normal._ He suddenly knew that _nothing_ was normal in his life, that _he_ wasn't normal, that this wasn't how things were supposed to go.

 

He meets Sully at the ripe, old age of nine. Sam loves Sully, his only true friend at the time, so ready to do anything and everything with the Zana. And he runs the Hell away, even if its only for a two hours before he comes back. But, Hell, he runs and he _runs,_ running away from _The Life,_ from his possessive father, from the terrible life he's being forced to live without severance. He gets caught and takes each and every hit with trained silence and patience, though he's only biding his time. He knows exactly how to disappear. His father had taught him far too much in that time.

 

Dean disappears after a while for defending him, which is an absolute _bitch_ of a thing for the youngest Winchester, in his humble opinion. But life comes and goes as it does for any other being in the world. He learns to handle it all, emotional baggage and everything. He's terrified of his father, relishing in their time away from each other, so thankful for the moments where he doesn't have to deal with the oldest. Sam hates leaving Sully, honestly, his mind twisting and turning as he bolts, faking as much excitement as he can. He relents eventually, though, forced away with John's all too common mood swings. When he returns to the shitty motel-cabin _-thing,_ he finds it empty, traces of the Zana so long gone that it leaves Sam's stomach to churn and unwind. He sobs and sobs, realizing that he had done exactly what he didn't want to do. He didn't _want_ to hunt, he was only there because something in him screamed that it's what he's supposed to do. He wants the Hell out of hunting more and more with each passing day, though that same thing seemed to scream that every single time he got out, he would somehow be pulled back in.

 

At only eleven, he wakes up sobbing, pain coursing through his entire body. He had taken a nap - something that had become a daily task with nightly hunting and then school hours and something he looked forward to each and every day - after school, ready for his alone time. John would be out either getting off his ass drunk and banging some random chick or getting information on a hunt while Dean would be doing the teenager equivalent of such, going on dates or make out sessions with whichever random girl fell victim to his brother's charm that would almost always be at the back of his mind within the first few hours of leaving a town. But that doesn't matter to Sam, not as he calls his brother, babbling incoherently to the girl that had picked up the phone. She was obviously annoyed at the sobbing preteen, even hanging up before grumbling a threat into the phone the second time he calls. He'd told her off the third time, anger seeping into each and every word before Dean's voice piped up and the phone was passed to the older Winchester. Dean asked why in the _Hell_ he wasn't even speaking in English. Despite Sam's genuine confusion, he had yelled at his brother, begging him to get his ass back to the motel before he kicked it.

 

The anger that Dean held when he stomped into the motel room instantly seeped out, replaced with concern as he saw his brother withering in pain on the bed. His expression softened as he shut the door, room filled with more incoherent babbling. He helped his brother to the bathroom, telling him to take a warm shower before he did anything else, truly beginning his journey as withholding the title of  _big brother._ The two stayed silent and both kept their cools as much as they could maintain. As they found, the severe back pains weren't associated with his far too sketchy menstrual cycle. Instead, they came and went as they pleased, leaving the younger an absolute mess. It didn't help that they happened more often around supernatural creatures than anything. Each and every time, Dean was there. Sometimes he was in the background, other times in the foreground, standing front and center, face to face. Either way, Sam was thankful.

 

At thirteen, he ends up in the hospital. The doctors announced that he should be dead, that he shouldn't have even made it through the nap he had taken or through their fourteen-hour sit in the hospital. Sam stayed silent the entire week he laid in the hospital bed other than the times he was whining from the pain or complaining about the hospital in general. His original diagnosis had been polycystic ovaries, something that required to be tended to or there came the worry of possible cancers and such with all the build up. He had taken the simplest route, the lowest dosage of estrogen in birth control, something that was a simple start out. However, the two weeks and a day of birth control later ended him up in the cell of a room, confined the entire time, in far too much pain to leave.

 

Dean stayed by his side the entire time, John nowhere to be seen, a deadbeat dad. He didn't answer phone calls or voicemails, not even replying to the desperate emails his oldest child sent him. He was either dead or ignoring them, though the first option was the most common, even _expected._ The two managed to get by, thankfully, the blood clots eventually leaving. They concluded the simple device in his arm was the best solution, considering that they really were beginning to lose all the other options by the end of the day.

 

Sam grows and grows, though there's a sharp pause at eighteen. At eighteen, the motel room erupts into yells, the three Winchesters fighting, though it pins two against one. Sam wanted the Hell out, Dean more likely than not _knew_ he always wanted the Hell out, had craved it his _entire_ life. He had tried to keep it a secret, though he wasn't sure if Dean knew or not. Parts of him whispered that he did while others whispered he didn't. He didn't know which to believe, so he didn't listen. Sam found a fucking way out, even if it took him years and _years_ of patience and biding his time, holding his tongue. He expects Dean to be happy, to maybe say at least someone got out. But his mind is shattered when his brother yells at him, just as - if not _more_ \- pissed than their father. _You walk out that door,_ his brother speaks, _don't you_ ever _come back._

 

He somehow rooms with a witch, one running with the same line, escaping her family and their line of work. Her mother was a murderess with savage intent, just as John did against anything supernatural. She continues on using magic, though it's clearly harmless. She tames plants and lets them grow, just things she tastefully calls _in-home witchery,_ somehow amused with herself on that. She doesn't sacrifice animals unless she absolutely has to. The two pair well together, finding cases here and there without making a fuss.

 

She's no hunter, Hell no, but she sure as Hell was a good ass witch. Sam would teasingly call her _Glinda, the Good Witch_ when the two were on their hunter's highs, even far before the two crashed their lips and collided together. They hunted around campus as was needed, saving anything and everything they could. If they could save a monster, good on them. If they couldn't, well, they at least knew what to do.

 

The two became the _It_ couple. They were both on their way to graduating as valedictorian, already living together in their own apartment with their own jobs. They were thriving. They were the only two “hunters” around campus, but Hell if they didn't do their bests, saving countless. They would occasionally run into other hunters, yes, and it somehow managed to convince them that not _every_ supernatural creature was bad. They had their system, keeping every life separate.

 

They were growing closer and closer, slowly beginning to escape their traumas together. Or, well, so they _thought_ they were. But, then again, no one was exactly out of the woods when they lived life as a hunter or with their metaphorical third eye open. It always resulted in tragedy, in _pain._ Dean shows up with all the levels of cocky he _always_ managed to harbor. He breathes out the line, _Dad's on a hunting trip._ He pauses, eyes scanning over the two before finishing up, _an he hasn't been home in a few days._

 

Sam has to do a double take, has to force his brother to repeat that while listening to Jess insist on going with them. She eventually gives up, saying she'll stay home and hold down the fort, smirking at her fiance. Both Winchesters are thankful for that, for her agreeing to stay home. Sam had told her about his dreams, about the nightmares of watching her die. He's pretty sure that's what truly convinces her to stay. Those dreams had always somehow been accurate, even leading them to cases. However, he knew that no matter what she does, stays or goes, she would die. He didn't know that would mean she would necessarily die how she had, no, but he knew that her expiration date was near. For some reason, he could always tell when things were going to die.

 

Sam tunes things out. He _knows_ that he shouldn't tune them out, but he doesn't have an option. If he dwells on everything, on all the shit he _knows_ is going on and has or will happen, he'll drown. He'll drown in worry and fear and many other emotions he just doesn't have time for. But there is something he dwells on. It's the feeling that what he's doing - _hunting_ \- is wrong, that if he continues, things will shift and turn and be _wrong._ He feels that continuing this will turn into something big, something both life-threatening and world-changing.

 

Actually, Sam doesn't have a single doubt in the entire world that what he's doing is rewriting some universal code crap. He feels it the same exact way he feels about having something in him. He knows it isn't human. He had known he was different the instant he first caught a glimpse of a monster on a film, hunting and all aside. There was some _supernatural_ reason he could always guess monsters and miraculously get them right every single time, even if he couldn't relay ever knowing about the monster in the first place.

 

There were dreams, of course, ones that told of the past, present and - most commonly - the future. Hell, they were never just _there._ Not a single dream didn't have some footage of life he hadn't seen or wouldn't see already unless it gave him the purpose of changing those options. They told of things that would continue on or stop, silent visions that him of things. Some told him about monsters, others were ways to avoid arguments with people or awkward situations, and so on until Sam knew to memorize every aspect of these dreams like they were his life because they always _were._ He avoided fights and passive-aggressive exchanges like a pro. But these dreams often brought up Jessica as well.

 

Something about seeing a shapeshifter taking on his own face made the young Winchester cringe, attacking his impersonator without remorse. For some God awful reason, seeing someone impersonating him felt like a _sin._ He grimaced at that feeling, cringing later on. He was disgusted with himself for even considering that he could be held up at that high of a position. He had to remind himself to keep his ego under control, forcing his brain to recognize that he was simply a human with the upper hand when it came to hunting, though even then it felt incorrect.

 

The young Winchester didn't mind bugs, honestly, but he definitely hated hunting them with a passion. He wasn't grossed out by the little shits, never had been. However, that didn't change his opinion that he didn't fucking want them crawling all over his body in the middle of a case. He didn't favor that case, not in the least. They were annoying cases that really _bugged_ him. He was damn near ready to punch his brother in the throat for even considering speaking that pun. That case also managed to mark the sixth-month date of them searching for their deadbeat father.

 

Sam does have to pause at his brother's near-death experience, though. It scares him in ways he hadn't really considered before, not in depth. He conceals all his concern, keeps it passively locked up with all his other worries. And it seems to work for a time, but time isn't a promise. He doesn't comment on it, though. Same is so incredibly thankful for that, mostly because if he _did,_ that would mean the younger would actually have to speak on the topic, which he sure as Hell wasn’t prepared for in the least, not he thought he ever would be.

 

The mere thought of it all made his stomach squeeze, ready to expel to last contents consumed. It serves as a reminder that he could lose anyone at any given moment without any possible way to stop it. Some part deep down inside of him screams that that simpler isn't true, that there was always a way to save them, that nothing was _actually_  written in stone about death. He wasn't sure how _yet._ He knew of crossroads demons, ones he'd read about again and again at some point in time, but those were all so sketchy. There was never any guarantee he wouldn't die beforehand either. He knows that they're real, at least, just like how somewhere deep, _deep_ down inside him, he knows that, without a _single_ doubt, that God is real. He doesn't worship Him, nor have much faith in the Man Upstairs, but he knows He at least exists. He's unsure about Jesus actually existing, but he at least knows that the angels are there, too, by extension.

 

Somehow, amidst _everything_ that the two Winchesters were doing, they meet up with John once again. Sam’s chest tightens and his slouch that he'd always been aware of was suddenly gone, the youngest standing straight up with a trained tolerance. Something awakens in him once again, full of hurt and denial. He knows he's felt it before, though he's unsure of when _exactly_ that had been. He glares at his father, the two sending passive-aggressive looks to each other when Dean isn't looking. The younger wants to throw some rounds with his father, though the feeling dies down underneath the genuine _fear_ that follows every single time his father speaks with him, tone sharp and just as rough as he remembered.

 

Even after years of therapy with a hunter that had gotten certified purely for _this reason,_ the fear never seemed to go away. It had stacked up with an impending _what's he going to do to me,_ as the youngest finds. He ignores John every opportunity he gets. That didn't dare prepare him for the sacrifices would be made in his presence.

 

When John leaves once again, Sam honestly isn't sure how to feel anymore. His body is so full of tension and his back sputters in pains from that tension, burning and burning as he moves more and more. But at the same time, everything felt numb, falling into a void of too many emotions overriding his system until he felt absolutely nothing at all. He feels like he's sinking deep in the water, pulled further and further into the pitch black eyes his father wears in his nightmares, watching them flicker to a swirling yellow again and again. His dreams consist of drowning a black sea of nothing or flames licking burns into his skin, then rest being visions. He savors the nights where his comatose state goes undisturbed by the distorted images, yet those had become so rare. It was more often than not that he would awaken at least once within five hours of sleep, the latest vision getting easily scribbled or written on the notepad that always sat on the table across the room. Dean's worry for his brother only seems to thicken as he watches Sam begin the process of running himself ragged.

 

The Colt is something he feels humans should never possess, not yet have the power to wield. Though, he has to admit that another part of him said that this simply wasn't enough power, that they deserved enough to simply take care of themselves from the demons that ran rampant through the world. He felt that they should at least be able to use them in self-defense, but not actively go after. Same does a double take the instant he realizes he isn't counting _himself_ as a human. That runs a million things through his head, none of which he enjoys.

 

Meg's comings and goings seem to stand proof that he thinks humans should at least be able to protect themselves. He has no idea how many she's murdered, but he at least knows it's _enough_ to deserve her to be thrown back down in the pit. The anger he feels towards the demon feels _ancient,_ as if it was deeply rooted in his soul, so painfully _there_ and apparent. He hates the realization that this feeling _may_ be something that simply _isn't human._ He'd actively been denying that theory for years upon years. Hell, he’d even avoided asking monsters that he was killing about what his blood had tasted like. Their surprise was enough to know that it wasn't _supposed_ to taste like how it had. They died quick enough, far too quick to actually tell him much.

 

The name Azazel seems so familiar when he experiences it. He can't pinpoint it, no, but he _knows_ he knew the name, maybe even knew the person behind it, though he can't be sure. He isn't sure how he feels about that name, not the gun now in his and his brother's possession. It doesn't help that odd feeling leave when their father suddenly _appears_ with more information and assets for the younger two. He doesn't trust his father, not with the way he makes his body hurt and feels the aura of death around the two older Winchesters the instant he pops in. He doesn't dare voice it to his brother. That was practically a death wish. He knew he'd get a rather harsh smack to the back of the head if he did, his brother unforgiving with the damn ring on his finger. He didn't doubt John would smack him, too, if he even felt Sam don't have his full faith in the older two. He'd done it before and Sam _knew_ he would do it again without remorse.

 

His faith - and therefore lack of - seem to guide him perfectly, despite how painful it ends up being for the younger. Sam's mind stings in ways he didn't know were even possible. He already knew this father would die, knew that it was _soon._ He could feel his father ticking more and more. He'd had these damn nightmares flaring up more and more since Jessica had died. He could get outcomes that he could avoid, scene replaying, again and again, time after time. However, shooting his father in the leg was, ultimately, the only decision he _knew_ would save his brother and at least guarantee his father a few more moments, moments where he _knew_ his brother would have better views on his father than he had beforehand.

 

Sam doesn't mourn the same way Dean does. He does it silently, stewing in his emotions. He _knew_ he had felt this pain before. Once again, it felt _ancient_ inside of him. He hates it with a new passion. Sam isn't in as much pain as Dean, no, probably nowhere near it. He didn't have a connection to the oldest Winchester, not the way the older did. That doesn't mean his chest doesn't tighten and his stomach doesn't knot up at the thought of his blood father. It really didn't help that he'd already seen the scene a million times. He had numbed himself down as soon as the dreams began. He had to accept that this was what was going to happen, whether he liked it or not. It had taken months of his screams echoing through the dream realm, waking up each and every time with his throat burning and his brother's eyes filled with concern. His eyes were always puffy afterward, though Dean never pried. Somber silence filled their car rides each and every time.

 

The two hunt, numb to each other and the outside world. They find comfort in knowing they're at least saving people while they do all of this. They force themselves to trudge through the trauma and pain of it all, getting the fuck past all of it the best they can. It’s the equivalent of trudging up a mountain covered in mud, but they're at least getting there.

 

They meet another hunting family, the Harvelles. It doesn't take long for Dean to get at home with Ash, Ellen, and Jo. They were much friendlier than John had described him in his messy notebook. Sam takes up to Ash more than the women of the family, though Dean seems to do the exact opposite and immediately ends up somehow bonding with the girls, charming them with his damned cocky attitude. Sam has to roll his eyes at his brother for that one. However, they all seem to work together well enough. Sam could completely ignore the gun held to his brother's back, of course, that wouldn't be hard at all. They destroy the Rakshasa, as well as Dean's beloved _Baby,_ a bar in hand as his anger boiled over. The Impala may have been trashed, yes, but at least it was being repaired. Dean may have done it purely out of spite, radiating an aura of pure anger as he did so, but at least it was done.

 

When the younger gets abducted by a group of vampires, he doesn't exactly expect to sympathize with them. They let Sam go. They're all too calm and he's all too in the know. Same does his absolute best to convince his brother that they're not bad, basically vampire vegans, even. Dean persists otherwise, though Gordon seems to be the reason for their end. The guy was practically Hellbent on making the youngest Winchester's life the worst it could be.

 

Certain versions had nothing to do with Sam, not in the least. Some of those visions were like the ones with Jessica, telling of how she could die, as well as how to save her most of those times. This one, however, leads him to not something, but _someone._ And that someone is _just like he is._ He gapes at the wall as soon as he realizes, because the same stoner of a guy is _just fucking like me, Dean! He's just like me!_ Despite all of Dean’s protests to all of that, to all of what they'd said and done, they end up getting along with each other just fine, or at least enough not to murder each other.

 

They find that not _every_ Azazel-connected child had the same pattern as they originally thought, losing a parent at the six-month mark. Instead, it seems to all be at random. Ansen and Andy didn't follow the originally set pattern at all. It only confuses Same more because he can _feel_ that the two are just like him. He gives out his number to Andy, to anyone that has any sort of connections to Azazel or their cases. He silently figures that they'll attract the supernatural world the same, exact way as he always had. When he asks Andy if he can feel monsters or others like him, the male only shakes his head, confused. Once they left, Sam worried for them all in his brooding silence.

 

Crossroads demons were annoying, at least in the brother's _humble_ opinions, but they couldn't stop people and their stupidity. If someone decided to give up their soul to get whatever they want. The bright side to it all was at least they had ten years to enjoy it all before spending the rest of eternity regretting it.

 

The crossroads demon that revealed the suffering of their father stood as a silent torturer for the oldest Winchester. If what Sam had been doing was considered brooding, then holy shit was Dean brooding. The younger concerns for the other ‘Children of Azazel’ were pushed aside and replaced for concern for his brother. He was doing a Hell of a job being a million times worse. He did everything in his power to ignore Dean's lashes at the younger, avoiding them, again and again, the entire time. He avoided voicing his concerns about the topic the entire time, letting his mind numb to the concern for Azazel's infected children and his brother. He bottled the same way that he had trained himself out of. Damn him and his fucked up headspace.

 

Of course, Sam ones that he couldn't escape the dreaded push of life forever. He wished with his entire being that he could, but between the hunts and loss of an essential hormone, he finds cramps invading his abdomen and his hips burning. Of course, that signals more and more pain, all hunting at the same thing. On a night where the dreaded becomes official, he opens the bathroom door, not actually looking for his brother. He knows the older is sitting at the table, just out of view from the cracked door. “Hey, Dean,” Sam speaks from his spot, sighing. He doesn't need to speak loud for his brother to her. The older grunts in acknowledgment. “I need you to run to the store.”

 

“What for?”

 

“Pads, tampons, whichever is more convenient.” The younger replies.

 

The old, rickety chair squeals in protest as he stands. Sam couldn't be more thankful that his brother was so used to their routine, already getting back into it once again. “You, uh, still the same size on both, or?...”

 

The awkward question makes Sam snort as he replies. It was blunt and awkward, a curveball compared to Dean's normally suave personality. Within two minutes, the door was opening and closing, the older leaving while the younger made his way into the shower. The two would live the same lives they did before Stanford, though now they held official titles. They were officially hunters, at the very least. Sam's suffering wouldn't last _too_ long, he was already far too used to his sketchy cycle. For once, it 

wasn't controlled by ten days of taking pills, instead just a natural release of hormones.

 

The Croatoan virus seriously catches him off guard. He had heard the word Croatoan, yeah, sure, everyone that paid any attention in fifth-grade social studies knew about it to some extent. However, finding himself infected with the blood raised so many red flags. It felt so sickly terrible, as if a deadly infection had spread from a wound to the rest of his body, fired up and burning. Nausea takes over at multiple points, though he manages to find through it. He acted as if his blood pressure weren't feeling as high as someone who was getting an MRI scan would be, face burning and body lighting up at random points. He didn't doubt that he was wearing it out, either.

 

Sam could have sworn one of the survivors had spoken about how Sam was immune, _As he's expected to be, of course,_ though he wasn't sure. It didn't feel solid enough for him to pry, so he doesn't dare. Instead, he keeps it to himself, blaming in on the demon's blood that he's immune to the deathly virus. Hell, it probably wasn't going to be the last demon virus he would survive. He doesn't want to test his limits, honestly.

 

His nightmares flare up, though they preach tales of if he'd _actually_ gotten the virus. There are some of Jessica, all of which make his stomach knot. He usually has to run to the bathroom once he wakes up to avoid upchucking on the floor. His chest would ache as he lurched over the toilet, shoulders hunched at a painful position that always made his back flare up in pain as soon he came to his senses, ripping his hands away from the toilet bowl. Dean stands as a silent savior through it all.


	2. Chapter 2

The more people Sam found like himself, the more painful and worrisome Sam’s journey was. It didn't help that Dean told him to his face that his father said he would either have to save him or kill him. That realization of what it  _ truly _ implied set something off in the younger Winchester's mind, though he couldn't find himself to be upset with his brother. He couldn't even be mad. He does leave after he hears that, though. He can't bear staying when he knows his presence is a burden on his brother, a ticking time bomb, a rubber band ready to snap and slap.

 

He seemed out Ava, who had seen a parents death the same, exact way he had. She was the same as he, though much shorter and much less  _ hunter _ than he. The two find that they're nothing more than pawns in Azazel's game of chess, moving their way across the board, ready to upgrade to king, queen, or knight. There wouldn't be an in between, which the taller knew with his entire being, unfortunately. They needed to survive the other players, the other pieces that sought out the same fortune. Same didn't want the fortune. He simply wanted off the board and out of the game. But this game didn't involve just  _ two _ players, as always known. It involved multiple teams. Humans, demons, monsters, anything, and  _ everything _ was sprawled across the boards, not even being on one board. They were all obstacles ready to charge at any second. 

 

As it turns out, a hunter named Gordon is one of the self-proclaimed knights. He attacks as he pleases, parading around and preaching that Sam was dangerous. He wasn't, not how the hunter said he was. There were fleeting moments where he knew he wasn't the safest, but they always had their own reasoning. 

 

Deans rolls in and saves their asses just in time, sending an  _ anonymous tip _ that ends up getting him thrown in the cell. As always, Sam leaves Ava with a number and email, the two that he never changes, knowing damn well that they'll be important in the future. For some reason, he feels that their time will be somewhere near  _ soon. _ He hates that thought, though he isn't actually sure how soon was. But when they check in later, they find her missing and her fiance dead as a doorknob. It makes Sam flinch, awoken from those dreams shaking. 

 

He makes Dean promise him something, something he knows his brother won't actually go through with, though it doesn't really matter. He knows Dean won't go through with it. The empty promise of it all is unsettling. He wants the older to kill him if he dares turn evil. If only they realized how ironic that was, or would be. 

 

Within the sudden upturn, Sam doesn't remember  _ shit, _ an entire week nothing more than dust in the wind. It's all  _ blank. _ He doesn't really know why, much less  _ how,  _ but he had killed a hunter, one of which was most likely held up pretty high. He even had a daughter, which lead on the inference of  _ maybe _ an  _ entire fucking family. _ It terrifies him. It genuinely terrifies the absolute fucking  _ shit _ out of him. 

 

He shoves the gun into Dwan's hands,  _ begging _ his brother to just  _ fucking go for it. _ Thoughts zoom through his head at a million miles a minute, ones that simply cannot be ruled out. They all pointed him to be a murderer, tagging him on the spot, not a single doubt about it in the least. He was a fucking  _ murderer, _ no better than his shit thing of a father, the one that had poisoned his mind over time. He wants to vomit at the reminder. He hates the thought damn near about as much as he already hates himself. He totally  _ doesn't  _ vomit on the side of the road, nope, not at all, never. 

 

Actually, that's not even the most  _ truly _ terrifying part, in his  _ humble _ opinion. He doesn't even have dreams during this, just flashing recognizes of  _ do this _ and  _ don't do this _ types of feelings that are so strong he almost vomits each time. It doesn't feel correct in the least. It doesn't feel like  _ Sam,  _ it feels like something it possessing his body and telling him  _ move it, bitch _ at their own will. His mind screams these feelings at him without remorse for the consequences. It all feels like a heavy fever dream, one where he isn't even controlling himself, his dream forcing him to do things as it always did. It feels like one night terror after another. 

 

But it's suddenly all  _ too real,  _ and the  _ real _ Sam is screaming for a way out, to take control. With Jo chained up to the pole and a gun aimed at his chest, Sam has no will to fight against any of it if he's  _ actually  _ shot, but he  _ does _ fight against the demon within his swampy mind space. It comes out improperly, useless, words slushing together in a slurry of confusing, near unintelligible languages, most of which don't actually make sense in their  _ actual _ language. He wasn't even sure what he was saying most of it. His throat goes raw, his soul torn up at not being able to do something so fucking  _ simple. _ He had some shit in him that  _ wasn't human, _ how could he not save himself, if not for at least the sake of saving others? 

 

His mind sure as hell feels like shit once he returns. He attempts to play it off, do his best to simply not let Dean and Bobby find out, but it's so much easier said than done. He gets a punch straight to the face for it, which he can't exactly blame them for it. There was no good or bad come out, not in the truth. It all ended up the same, though this one was the  _ least  _ painful, especially with how many times he had already prepared himself for it. 

 

But his mind still stalls and freezes when he brings it up to Dean, voice slowly breaking as he speaks to the older. “I was awake for all of it, Dean. I watched my own two hands kill someone, another  _ hunter, _ no less.” His hands shook the tiniest bit at the reminder of what he had done. Possessed or not, he was conscious. “I almost ganked Jo, too.” 

 

He hates the truth that floods out. He hates how correct it is, there to plague him until his true dying days. He hates that the terms come out so easily from him, despite how broken they were. 

 

Same knew Meg enough of his secrets from that simple possession. She had implanted herself in his brain, after all, taking over his entire conscious. That was how souls and bodies worked. They were linked together, hand and hand. Possession linked an extra link, needed or not. It gave whoever was taking over the access to all memories, even in a few places the opportunity to consume the soul metaphorically, taking over full control. Whatever thoughts she had, Sam shared with her the  _ entire time. _ Meg had shared some of his thoughts, some of his memories. 

 

_ That _ was what was truly terrifying to Sam. He didn't know exactly what all she knew, but she definitely knew  _ enough. _ He at least knew the spells and change she had used. They were so different from Jessica's own. 

 

Dean stops him within those thoughts, making him halt. He's annoyed with the younger. Anger radiates off of Dean as he declares that he's actually angry for Sam even  _ considering _ any of those things. He's quick to snap at his baby brother for it. 

 

However, seeing the  _ Trickster _ face to face is, well,  _ new _ to Sam. It brings on new feelings for the Winchester, knowing who he is, knowing his power. It's something that Sam gets stuck on. 

 

He wants to scream at him, for some reason, though he has no idea why. Something about the Trickster just strikes him as  _ familiar, _ so damn close to home. The feelings make Sams’ chest coil and his blood burn, mind reeling and seizing. His breathing hitches for more than just  _ once. _

 

Sam's mind races in his presence. Every single fucking  _ fiber _ of his entire large being was screaming that he should know this face, that he should know this  _ being, _ that he had memorized it. Yet, all of that felt like they were lifetimes ago, far from the current existence, from  _ Sam Winchester, _ from now. He couldn't shake the feeling that he should have known him from  _ before, _ but he has no idea where before stood, what it meant, how to access the meaning of it all. 

 

Same couldn't find it in him. Not as he scoured his memory. He connected every dot that could possibly be there, could possibly  _ exist. _ His dreams even seemed to know him, showing his face. However, it couldn’t seem to find the real fucking name to them. He had seen it so,  _ so _ many times before, dreams filled with it before, running all over his mind. He felt the same emotions of pain, even in the dream form. It all felt like a harsh punch straight to the chest. 

 

Sam’s entire body seems to refute to stabbing him, watching himself do it. His stomach flops. It's all just a giant  _ No No _ on the huge puppy of a man, just something for his dreams to haunt him with later on. It even manages to sap tears from his eyes. He swipes them away before his brother can even attempt to see them. The two leave in absolute silence, tense as can be. For once, Dean takes the hint not to disturb it genuinely. Sam relishes in that. His older brother had seen him work through enough emotional turmoil in their childhood, which had lead to him knowing that if he even considers disturbing it, the consequences would be painful for both of them and more than likely lead to even worse turmoil. Neither of them wanted that, so a mutual respect stuck with them. 

 

Another bunch of ghost cases pass the two, then a werewolf one. Sam find the girl in question was Madison, of whom he expects to be normal once again after everything. Unfortunately, though, lore is just lore until it was proven to be factual or not. His dreams point towards her. Dean follows his lead, knowing better than to fight him on it. 

 

Despite her lack of a transformation the next night, Sam politely turns down her flirtations and any sort of advances. Unlike Dean, he can't exactly just flaunt his body everywhere, not without questions, which he was far from prepared to answer. He didn't want that to get in the way of what little resolve he had. 

 

With all the inner turmoil of his own thoughts and actions, as well as the nightmares and visions that had gotten more and more frequent as well as hostile since Meg had appeared, there were so very few chances to relax. Thankfully, Madison respects his choice to turn her down. She pulls away and nods. She isn't anywhere near upset, which baffles Sam, because he had seen such different reactions from so many people. He silently thinks to himself that he shouldn't be baffled for being given decent human respect, but his mind, in all of its bitchiness, reminds him that he is actually  _ far _ from being just human. 

 

Madison pops out a couple of beers, passing one off to the taller. She doesn't ask why he gets defensive or why he seems to tear up when she pulls back. Instead, she gives Sam a calm smile and flicks the television on, flipping in some shitty movie that the two agree on to make fun of. 

 

Sam does, however, feel like the utmost biggest thing of a jackass when he realizes that he has to kill her, even if she begs him. Madison doesn't mind. She insists, convincing him to just get it on with while wearing a smile on her lips. He hugs her one last time. It's painful manipulation, something he had already known in this shit thing of a world. He does do it, albeit painfully. The stench of wet dog that always comes with werewolf cases slowly fade from his nostrils as he and Dean flee from her home, long after respectfully burning her body the same way they would with any hunter. 

 

With their next case, Sam genuinely gets caught off guard, even if he should have seen it coming. Within all his time of being with his brother, within all of his  _ lifetime,  _ actually, he never once would have believed Dean would have actively wanted to get arrested. In fact, he probably would’ve thrown holy water at whoever dared even joke about shit like that. 

 

But that doesn't stop the two from doing their dumbass plan. Actually, Sam isn't sure why he calls it a  _ dumbass plan. _ Any Winchester plan is a dumbass plan, he should have memorized that fact by now. He really does memorize it once he's locked in a cell, especially with his binder suddenly locked away from him, too. Thankfully, he does get to room with his jerk of a brother. 

 

Sam doesn't dare speak a word about the fact that his once nightmares had stepped up their game into night terrors, ones that leave him shaking like a leaf and insecure as can be. It doesn't help that he's held in a cell, just like a few of the worst dreams that leave him hurting the worst. The cell connects to a face blonde man, as well as a woman, though only one that has  _ something _ to do with cells, but Sam isn't actually sure how. He's faceless, but the Winchester knows he's short and he wakes up feeling as if his soul had been raided of its purity every single time he awoke from one of those dreams. It's a string of visions and dreams that make him flinch every time.

 

He finds that one of the blondes, the woman, is actually Jessica. He always sees her in the same outfit she died in. It's so similar to his mother. He isn't actually sure how he knows that, but every single time he dreams of her death, another woman dies only dreams later, resembling  _ Mary Winchester, _ the woman he had never actually had in his life, but had actually had such a gigantic impact on him. If only he knew the genuine proof of that, of the cold receipts that came with that statement, he would realize the irony as well as the cold truth. 

 

The man is someone that Sam  _ knows  _ he'll meet in the future, even if he has no idea how or when. There actually aren't many distinctive features from him. Short but dirty blonde hair, a green jacket, jeans. The only thing that genuinely stands out are the red fucking eyes that seem to haunt him. Aside from those, the rest of him seemed to be corrupted, like a game character that he had yet to unlock, muffled by grey and random static or glitches. 

 

This one feels the same as the Trickster, but the longing wasn't there. This one came with a deep feeling, yes, but it resembled fear more than acceptance. He knows he's seen this being, too, countless times, but this one feels just as lost. It was an impending dream, sly and coy, slipping in hints about his future that he collects like rain, checking in on it with his hope dwindling each and every time. This one feels so much  _ worse _ than all the others. He hates collecting details. His mind screams at him to just push it away, but the screaming only pulls it closer. 

 

Blue mixes with the clashing red at some point. They fight over control, never daring mix to make purple. There were blue eyes and black hair. It all fits in a frame that looks far too familiar. It looks like those photos that he had only seen in the deepest whispers of the night with Dean or a couple of times when he had been stuck with Bobby and began to brew with questions that became distracting and painful. Because  _ Sally brought in her parent's photos today. Why have I never seen photos of both my parents?  _ The frame looks like those wedding photos that Dean had shown him once and Bobby twice. 

 

The red-eyes being seems to freeze things, too cold and somber for sincerity and emotions outside of hatred. The blue-eyed one is no better, burning with flames, fueled by hatred and rage that went unkempt for far too long, just gradually stoking the fire. Sam was so far from excited for his future. Actually, he dreaded it, envied the people that were genuinely  _ human _ and didn't have to hunt or deal with  _ this. _ He would literally kill to be in their shoes. He  _ was  _ killing to be in their shoes! 

 

After they solve that case, they dwell to a dijimm, which ends up being nothing special. However, Sam was far from expecting to wake up in a ghost town. He barrels through it with expertise only a soldier or hunter would know, which annoys him to remember. He finds Ava, which surprises him on multiple levels. He had so many questions, such as how in the  _ Hell _ she'd gotten locked up there. Then he finds Andy, as well as others. Each of them has their own ability. Sam was quick to chalk it up to the damn demon blood. 

 

Jake, as he finds, is actually the most curious about the demon's blood. It wasn't even in a homicidal type of way, just genuine curiosity that Sam had only ever seen in children. He also likes asking about his hunting, too. He asks question after question. Maybe it was to bond with Sam, the younger isn't actually sure, but it sure as Hell was a way to pass their time until they learned how in the Hell to do all of this, or at least how to get out without being murdered. 

 

The two stand in a build that was damn near falling down. It was much more broken, shittier than the others that filled the town. A wrong step or two would, most definitely, bring it toppling down on the two of them, but they had accepted that before they had even stepped foot in the building. They had volunteered to go inside, anyway. They were the biggest of their team. Ava and Andy were doing their best to calm Lily while the bigger two prepared to fight. 

 

Jake calmly asks as he sifts around the room for anything to fight with, “So, what's your power? Is it some touch related thing like Lily's power or can you basically email pictures to people through their minds like Andy?” He says it as nonchalant as possible. 

 

Sam simply shrugs in reply. He pulls the iron bar closer to himself. He roots around what may have once been considered the kitchen area, consider that there was a table and something akin to a stove in there, though he couldn't actually be sure. “Never actually tried, honestly. I know that I'm a hunter and all that, but I'd rather let the monster go peacefully if they aren't harming anyone. I get, like, freaky visions and nightmares, though. It would be pretty taboo to suddenly start using demon powers in front of another hunter, too, so I've never actually got to test that kind of stuff.” He opens a cabinet above the stove-like thing, only to jump back as it fell towards him, splintered off of its hinges and breaking on the ground, leaving a genuine dent in the floor.

 

Jake, thankfully, chooses to ignore the last bit in favor of smirking. He asks the taller, “So, what, you see the future and all that stuff?” 

 

“Past and present, too,” Sam scoffs. “Yeah, it comes in handy every once in a while. My dad and my brother, I could somehow always tell what they hunted. Sometimes I could only tell when they first got home, and other times it just stayed with me for hours. and that was before I even know the supernatural world actually existed, too.” He turns sharply towards the shorter as he kicks a broken chair. He watches as it shatters upon impact. The pieces splinter and fall to the floor. With that, he turns back towards the door, or at least the only open door. He pushes through what used to be a home. “A werewolf smells like wet dog.” 

 

Jake perks up at that information. “Really? What about ghosts and stuff like that?” More genuine excitement filters through him once again. 

 

“Well, it honestly depends with ghosts.” He shrugs slightly, though it could have been seen as more of an offhanded shudder than anything. “There are some that smell like dirt. There are some that even smell like burning paper.” He swipes a hand across his nose, pushing away some dust. “I even found one that smelled like cinnamon when I was nine years old. I think it was maybe my second hunt when I did? I can't remember.” Sam swipes at a cobweb just before it invades his hair. “Demons either smell like sulfur or blood, never anything in between. Vampires smell like blood sometimes, too, but they usually just smell like dead things.” Jake continues to follow him without hesitation, drinking in his words. He takes a genuine interest in Sam's basic philosophy of the supernatural scent, which is honestly a little funny. 

 

When they finally leave, Sam holds only six iron bars in his hand, which is a little bit worrisome, honestly. However, his vision seems to greet him with an amazing idea, one that makes his back ache with excitement. “Hey, Andy, you can still messages and stuff, right?” 

 

The other male perks up at his name, though his brows furrow in confusion. He nods, though. “Yeah.” 

 

“Have you ever tried long distance?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've turned 1,650 words into 3,703, Jesus fuck. 
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> I HAVE LOST THIS DOCUMENT SIX FUCKING TIMES, YOU GUYS. I HAVE RECOVERED IT SEVEN TIMES. DO YOU UNDERSTAND HOW ANNOYING THIS IS? I ALMOST CRIED. I WAS SO UPSET EACH AND EVERY TIME BUT NOW IVE EVEN POSTED THE DRAFT VERSION PURELY OUT OF SPITE. THATS HOW PISSED I WAS. AND ITS WHY IT TOOK ME SO LONG WITH THE UPDATE.


	3. Chapter 3

That night held dreams that seemed to be unorthodoxly kind in the beginning. They were tame, calm in a sea of insecurities and worry. Not a single dream presented itself with his locations or much less anywhere near it. That made him panic more than the impending dream that would drop the other shoe, the one Sam  _ knew _ was coming. Azazel does, indeed, come to fuel the storm. It was like the twisting of a knife, the demon's pride clear as he announces why he brought them, why Lily  _ had to die. _ She was supposedly much weaker than the others. She wouldn't get anywhere with her supposed lack of confidence. 

 

Jake explains to Sam what the demon's blood had given him. It had given his strength, the ability to lift hundreds of pounds with the ease of it weighing so little to him. His muscle had been upped to amounts Sam could only imagine, as well as being able to bend metals and other materials easy. He admires Sam, though, admires the life he lives. 

 

There comes the quiet question of, “So you chose to hunt,” when the two were alone, searching for metals and anything to be used as weapons still. 

 

Sam shakes his head in reply, a smile lilting at his features. If it didn't, his reply would be horrible. He had to keep his ease to it all. “Not exactly. My dad went missing and my brother roped me back into it all. We went on a hunt together. When I came back, my fiance was burning on the ceiling just like my mother had, both victims of Azazel. There really wasn't anything I could do to save either of them, so, I had nothing to go on with. I picked up all my classes online, graduated early as valedictorian, then had absolutely nothing I could do with it since I had been pegged for multiple murders.” He heaves up a salt bag, relining the window with the most nonchalant expression he can muster up. “You're probably never going to get into hunting, will you, Jake?” 

 

Jake scoffs, shaking his head as he follows up with the response, “No. I'm really not much of a people person. Just talking to everyone here itself is a pretty big stretch. I've got three friends back there, everyone else was just excess that I don't need.”

 

Sam had, in all honesty, expected that to have meant at least  _ something. _ Whether it be just admiration or a mutual friendship, he didn't mind or really care, but he knew he  _ should have. _ With both Ava and Andy being “eliminated” next, they had moved on to join Lily in the ranks of the dead army, one that grew each and every day, unstoppable. There only stood two competitors left, one of which held far more faith than the other. 

 

It really showed when Sam's mind went hazy, back erupting in pain. It blossomed along his skin. His shoulder blades ached horribly, as if they had been ripped forcefully out of his body. Flames licked at his skin, their sneaky tendrils snaking through his veins. The pain coils around him, suffocating him with the brightest lights he had ever seen, far more powerful than any light he had ever witnessed. And yet, Sam couldn't look away. Something felt so damn close, a memory or word just on the tip of his tongue, and yet it was all so damn far away from him. It burns harshly at the back of his mind. 

 

The blonde from his dreams stood with his raven-haired brother. Their backs were both turned to him, muscles traceable over their bodies. Six wings were displayed on each of their backs, carefully held out, something of a warning as red and blue clashed once more. Red wings on the blonde, freezing a path between them while the blur lit with flames, tendrils snaking closer and closer, no longer a warning but instead a harsh threat. 

 

Two others stood beside them. To the right of the blue one, there were grey wings, ones that seemingly clashed a little less than the others, though it still sat bright and glowing, hues of purple taking over far more than the grey itself. And standing to the left of the red was one turned halfway, his own left facing Sam partially. Whiskey lock mixed with golden wings, ones a tad bit bigger than the third angel's.  _ Angel's? _ Sam wasn't sure what else they could be. Golden eyes let out a soft glow, his own body seemingly faded more. He was a tad bit separated from the others. He wasn't faded, no, instead just  _ detached. _ Sam wasn't exactly sure, but detached felt much better than faded. 

 

There was another angel, one reaching forward, towards their glow. Giant black wings stood between Sam and the group, the angel playing monkey in the middle. They seemingly had black hair and blue eyes, their own glow filling Sam up as well. 

 

Sam flinches at their glow. They all burn far too bright, and yet he  _ can't  _ tear himself away. Everything clashes together, colors never daring mix together. It fills Sam's mind with a horrible fear that made his stomach fill with acid. He wanted to vomit, but there seemed to be no actual stomach for him. When he brought up his hands to examine then, they were distorted, one hand painted pure white with a soft, blue glow and the other black, its own glow of red and purple. 

 

There suddenly comes a smell Sam hated having fill up his nostrils on any given case. It's sickly there, the stench of burning skin, ever present in his mind as he focuses back in on the five figures. It suddenly switches to something sickly sweet, similar to pastries. They flip and flop at random, hot coaching with cold, and so on until the golden-winged figure suddenly turned towards Sam. His eyes were bright, full of fear. However, his features seemed like nothing, simply not there aside from his eyes, hair, and wings. He  _ knew _ he should recognize it, but just as suddenly as it had appeared, he was being ripped out of it all. 

 

His body jerks awake, throwing himself up with a painfully heaved breath. Daylight burns at his eyes the instant he opens them, finding his brother and surrogate father standing there. While the older looks much more pissed, the younger seems calm and happy. They surge forward, letting Sam force air into his lungs once again. 

 

The dream didn't feel like one of his visions, not in the least. It felt physical as if it had been a decision already in the process of being made, unable to be stopped by any force. It felt as if it had been there in all tenses, past, present, as well as future. His mind races with millions of questions and feelings that he can't process. In fact, he ends up blurting out the first few things that come to mind, things that he knows were  _ far _ from English. 

 

He passes it off though, switching to English and demanding answers. He knew he was dead, that he had died. He knew he shouldn't be alive. The ache in his shoulder blades was still on fire. It was far worse from the prying eyes of the golden angel, leaving him shaken up in ways he hadn't known since he was a child. He wants every single detail on what had happened, on why he was here. Sam yells at the two, accusations thrown that are far more truthful than he understands. They burn all three in the process. 

 

Sam was struck with a feeling of unknown, one that terrifies him. It doesn't help that only a day ago, he had been full of blissful ignorance and irrational fears. Now, each and every single one seemed to be rational, fueling his mind, forcing Sam to move and do things. 

 

He wants to  _ know. _ Sam wants the same knowledge he always craved, though he isn't exactly sure how “always” fits into this. As a child, he had, of course, but this seemed like a feeling so much older. He didn't hesitate to blame it on greed, greed that every craved. He needs to know what in the Hell the five figures had to do with every fucking thing. 

 

Sam spills about the impending war, the one that Jake was now going to lead. The war that Sam was actually supposed to lead. It was supposed to be the end of a lot of the world. It was more an offended accident that he had spurred on, but Azazel had planned it since the beginning, poisoning each and every child he and Lucifer could get their grubby mits on with the knight of Hell's blood. 

 

Sam’s mind hinders and freezes within that time. It stutters with reactions and pauses at awkward times. He's distracted with his own worries, concerns consuming him. Dreams only support that, filled with worse reminders. They plague his work. 

 

With the next case, Sam does feel horrible for Tamara. He feels his stomach knotting with guilt and his own painfully burning anger. He hadn't been able to save her husband. He could have. He could have if they had  _ listened  _ to him. But the two had been stubborn and ignored the Winchester's warning. 

 

He doesn't dare say anything near  _ We told you so. _ There was no point in rubbing salt in an open wound unless you wanted an infection, which is something none of them needed. Sam knew what losing a lover was like. Jessica, despite not being there, was still a large factor in his life. He thought about -  _ an missed _ \- her often, not that he’d admit it to anyone. He still mourns her. She appears in his dreams, stalking over him. He really does miss her. 

 

It wasn't Tamara's fault. He reassures her that it's far from it. It was the seven deadly sins fault. They killed him, not her or the Winchesters. It could have been prevented, but that's a whole different topic. He passes off his spare number to the hunter,  _ Just in case you need anything at all. _ He stands firm with his unspoken support, which she seems to be a tad thankful for. She slowly nods, thankful for his response. 

 

Sam was sympathetic, but he held up as tough as he could. Even if it was a front, he still held firm. Sam wasn't in the mood for her own sympathies. She knows something happened with him, something deathly clear, but Tamara doesn't ask. She pities him and he pities her. It's just a vicious cycle. Sam didn't give a single shit about what he'd released out of Hell, he was going to support Tamara as best he could. 

 

He does worry, though, after he leaves. It was more than just the Seven Deadly Sins, he knew it. It had to be. Potentially thousands of things had been released. What all had Sam and Dean done? What all had they released from the depths of Hell? 

 

It doesn't matter. Sam sees his brother living his fullest life. It's the only thing near a normal life that the Winchesters could get. No one  _ truly _ escapes the hunting life, and like Hell, he wouldn't now. 

 

However, that doesn't make Dean exempt to Sam's teasing, especially not when it involves one of his past hookups, as well as a shitty attempt at flirting. He even plays with the idea that  _ maybe _ Dean even had a child. He's far from sympathetic for Dean about the situation. Despite all the glares he receives, it was completely worth it to piss off and annoy the older Winchester. What else were brothers for, after all? 

 

Sam does a lot more work on the case, his brother catching up with a past interest and possible son. The two manage to solve that case without a hitch. Well, without the emotional baggage getting too heavy for the older, that is. 

 

They meet a demon, one that says she wants to help. It's such a risk, such an  _ oddball _ compared to everything else. She said she doesn't want the seals to break, wants to preserve them and keep the world from ending. 

 

She calls herself Ruby, which is the only damn normal thing about her. She was a demon, one that wanted to  _ help. _ She starts to invade his dreams. Ruby was always youthful, but her presence was like the plague. It invaded. It didn't ask for permission. It took over without remorse for its host. 

 

She's in the background, always standing with a young woman with white locks and the blonde with red wings that seemed to continuously haunt him. The wings would always light up with a bright red haze before flickering to a black or brown. Despite that, the wings didn't seem to fit the blonde, like they never  _ actually _ belonged to him. The wings are far too large to be his, the black and brown ones flickering to be at least double the size. They don't shine with such bright colors, but they were certainly presented just fine. They were nowhere near the tainted red that the blonde always displayed. 

 

With the massive size of the wings, Sam can’t help but wonder who they actually belong to. He knew his angels in the Bible, or at least the archangels, but there only stood four. Michael, Lucifer, Raphael, and Gabriel. Light and dark. God and not. It struck more fear. If there was an angel with that big of wings, who were they? What could they do? 

 

Despite the wish for all of his luck to turn out in his favor, it twists and turns at its own will. There are points where he was at his highs and ones where he was at his lowest. 

 

Sam was beyond just being  _ pissed off _ at the newest woman he met. Bela was a new thorn in his side, one of which makes him much more ready to kill than he normally would. Actually, he sort of wants to strangle her. He restrains himself, mostly because while she  _ is _ human, he can't decide who does and does not get the death penalty. 

 

His anger slowly billows down into nothing more than a silent annoyance that buzzed at the back of his mind. Though, that evolves into pain. When Gordon makes an appearance, he declares that he's hunting Sam, and he seems to be far from stopping. 

 

The next few cases, he's on the edge. He's somewhere between a panic attack and depression episode, but he keeps that information to himself, mostly because he almost always sat at somewhere like that. Sure, he may deny it, but that doesn't stop the young Winchester from being filled with fear or worry. He pushes it aside in favor of dealing with the shit at hand. 

 

That shit seems to be the knowledge that Hell was falling into fucking shambles. As it turned out, Azazel had ruled Hell, a strong king since he was a Knight of Hell, one of Lucifer's first few “abominations” in the books. They were much stronger than the others, infused with tainted Grace, though Sam had no idea how he knew that, much less what it meant. The demons were now desperate for power, whether it be for themselves or simply finding someone else to lead them. It infects his mind until he ends up with a certain crossroads demon, one that Sam shoots dead with little remorse. 

 

He encounters Bela a few cases later. Thanks to the Winchester actually having a fucking soul, he saves her. Despite all that shit, she doesn't hesitate to betray them once again, and Sam is tempted to drown her himself this fucking time. He had  _ saved _ her, saved her from strangling on water! He had put himself on the line, especially as water began to slowly fill his lungs, though he wasn't actually sure why. He hadn't done anything that wrong by Dean? He hadn't killed him, had he? 

 

Sam was even really sure he knew how to save either of them. Maybe it was because of his  _ Amazing Demon Senses™ _ [read sarcastically]. He had somehow known what to do, known to make it right with their sibling, known that those depts needed to be settled. It feels close to home somehow. 

 

He doesn't even know how he knew the words to the chant to summon the ghost. He knew he had said them properly, but he wasn't sure how he'd actually  _ known them. _ He hadn't had any extra language classes in school or college. Sure, there was Spanish, but that sure as Hell wasn't Spanish. It seemed much older than that. He silently explains to himself that with being fluent in two languages had aided him in being correct in the other, though he knows its incorrect. 

 

He regrets finding out that Gordon’s on his tail. It not only puts himself in danger, but his brother and whoever they help on hunts. Sam’s worry grows. That ends up with two more hunters dead and all of Hell's Boy King still standing, albeit guiltily and with more worry than before. That gives him a genuine panic attack  _ and _ depression episode, which Dean manages to lull him out of soon enough. 

 

Sam and Dean both decide to stretch their luck as thin as they can, though Dean treads on thin ice, especially once the topic of  _ Christmas _ comes up. The older wants to celebrate it, constantly reminding Sam that it will be his last, that they can't save Dean, that it's genuinely  _ over _ now. That just makes the younger all the more sick to his stomach, treading on the thinnest ice known to man. The holiday is infectiously terrible. 

 

The memories of Christmas always loomed around this time. It only made his night terrors heighten all the much.  _ Seasonal Depression _ was more than just a phrase to claim his seasonal anxieties as. It's a reminder set in stone for him. While Dean had always passively claimed it on the  _ waiting Santa _ bullshit that Sam had slowly grown out of, it had genuinely been those painful terrors kept him fueling himself on caffeine. He fueled and fueled until his body would give up, just shutting down on him and forcing him to sleep. 

 

Sam hated the holidays. He hated each and every single one of them. Halloween, Easter, it was all the same. More dreams, more fears, more worry, more and  _ more  _ things that he was tired of, of emotions that he couldn't stand anymore. He hadn't a kid anymore. He couldn't scream while his brother and father were gone, could scream until Bobby held him in a tight hug and just let him  _ sob _ like the two times that had happened. They weren't as harsh as Christmas, no, but harsh  _ enough. _

 

Dean wakes up his brother twice within the night, finding the taller shaking while dripping cold sweat. Sam pushes it aside, taking his brothers warning to stop talking in his sleep. Of course, he doesn't actually stop, but Dean's awake before it actually becomes an issue again. The third time, Sam is up and about, filling himself up on caffeine once again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UwU, 1,167 words into 3,216


	4. Chapter 4

Witches seem to be yet  _ another _ fucking thorn in the Winchester's sides. Even if Ruby knows exactly how to counter their magic, it doesn't mean that they aren't an absolute fucking annoyance. Sure, it was household objects that stopped them but  _ fuck _ if it wasn't annoying. Both Winchester’s were ready to voice their annoyance about hexx bags, the  _ biggest  _ bitch. 

 

Honestly, the realization that Ruby was a which wasn't actually that surprising. It probably should have stunned Sam, or something close to worrying him somewhat, or something close to concern at all, but it simply  _ doesn't. _ Hell, Jessica telling him she was a witch was more surprising, and that was  _ after _ he was completely sure and had cold, hard evidence against her that she was. He even sort of expects it from Ruby. 

 

Unbeknownst to the younger Winchester, Dean makes a deal with Ruby, one that  _ doesn't  _ involve his soul. The former witch agrees to the terms, agrees that she'll attempt to prepare Sam. Prepare him for both Dean's death  _ and _ the war that still burned in the background. Dean has no idea exactly  _ why _ she agrees, but he really doesn't trust it that much. 

 

It's pushed aside, just like everything else. The next case involves dream walkers, or specifically,  _ a  _ dream walker that manages to invade not only Bobby's mind, but also Dean's. It's a pain in Sam's ass, finding out his brother is out of commission, but he resorts to finding out how to save himself, as well as the two. 

 

Sam forces himself to control the dream, to learn how to in such a short amount of time. Within mere seconds, he teaches himself the same level of skill as the stoner, though he's pretty sure it's more of an adrenaline rush sort of thing. 

 

Despite the rush of it all, it's fucking  _ exhilarating. _ It felt like something he had known how to do, revisiting it once again, but with more control to it this time. He feels like he was genuinely meant for something along the lines of this, of walking along dreams, changing things for the better. He starts to experiment with it, hiding it from his brother but sure as Hell continuing to play around with his own mind space. 

 

When Sam wakes in Mystery Spot, though, something feels disgustingly familiar. His back burns with a familiar ache that every supernatural creature brought, though this time, the morning starts out with Sam near bawling from the pain. Dean, a savior in all his glory, comes to the rescue, helping the younger out without questions though he voices his annoyance, even if it actually isn't genuine. Sam's thankful nonetheless. 

 

The ache burrows deeper, something that Sam finds feels exactly like the Trickster, like the dream with the five angels, that damn near death/actual death experience. He feels annoyance filter through him. It feels just as old of an ache, one that burrows deeper and deeper. Unfortunately, though, he doesn't realize that until another Tuesday filters through, though this time Sam is a little more  _ okay _ with the aches. 

 

Tuesdays filter for more than an entire fucking  _ year. _ He watches his brother die again and again. His brain numbs more and more the pain of  _ everything _ just piling up. It piles until things shatter, until the Trickster fucks up. Sam could've had more than enough things to put on  _ 1,001 Ways to Die, _ even incorporating his own murder of his brother. He finds the Trickster that day, finds him with a cocky smirk and that shit eating grin that follows it. 

 

The Wednesday that follows, there seems to be no travel of the Trickster. He doesn't feel the ache. In fact, Sam feels much more hallow. 

 

“What do you remember from yesterday,” Sam asks after he pulls away from the older, still tense. 

 

Dean's brows furrow, confusion laced through it as he replies. “Uh, we went out to get breakfast, you seemed tense all day, we wanted a ghost, and then you passed out as soon as we got back? You were also  _ super _ tense yesterday, too. Why?” 

 

Sam's smile falters. It isn't the reply he wants. In fact, it's pretty far from it, but it seems to be the closest he was getting to a  _ good _ response. He just passes it off as his normal concerns, even if Dean doesn't buy it. 

 

But the Wednesday shifts into something much more horrid. A thousand and one doesn't seem to be enough. Not as Dean was taken from him yet  _ another _ time. 

 

Sam finds that the Trickster, or  _ Gabriel, _ as he is actually known as, is a lot easier to track than he thought. Follow the disgustingly clingy ache or the dreams that screamed warnings. 

 

Thankfully, Sam's dreams seem to connect more and more pieces of information on the other than Sam had expected. It gives him enough sense to connect the name Gabriel to the Trickster. The dots release a chain reaction. Golden wings flood his mind, memories of words that he doesn't exactly understand slipping in with the hints. 

 

He was an archangel, one of the big, bad creatures that everyone feared. Sure, he was just the Messenger, but something told Sam that it was  _ more _ than just that. Everyone feared the archangels for a  _ reason. _ It wasn't just rank. It wasn't just the extra wings. It was much more than that. It was probably the Grace and skills that came with it. It had to be. For some Reason, Sam couldn't think of anything else for it to be. 

 

The young Winchester blames it all on the demon's blood, but the faith in its ability sea to dwindle more and more as time goes on. The ache he mentally feels becomes much more challenging to deal with than ever, but the severe numbing was his normal. He was cold and ruthless until he found the Trickster. 

 

Gabriel actually seems delighted. “So, you found me, yeah,” he greets with a concluding nod, arms open. He seems just as cocky as ever. 

 

Same shakes his head, teeth gritted it an angry grimace. “You're not  _ just  _ a trickster, though, are you, Gabriel?” It wasn't full of malice like Sam had planned, but it was close enough, the whisper knocking out Gabriel's amused features. Sam allows his lips to flick up, offhandedly showing his own amusement, an offhanded  _ fuck you _ to the other. “You see, the demon blood,  _ Azazel's blood, _ it makes it really easy to sense you. I can sense all sort of other things. Demons, djinns, vampires,  _ archangels, _ you name it. It's really not hard to find you when I have all of that guiding me around the entire time.” 

 

Gabriel's mouth falls open, a finger coming up for falling again, his mouth closing shut. After a moment, he sighs and shakes his head, a clear  _ no. _ “You seriously haven't realized it yet?  _ Nothing? _ Sam, you're  _ more _ than just demon blood and human flesh!” He tosses his warm out to abbreviate, exaggerating it. “You're so much more than just that!” 

 

The Archangel pauses, moving to walk around the ‘human,’ who turns with his movements, confused. “As much as I want to teach you about losing people, about losing  _ Dean _ specifically, I really cannot do anything until you actually realize who in the Hell you really are! God, I've seen you in other places as other people, but you've always realized before then! Why is it so hard now?” 

 

“Gabriel,” Sam asks softly, confusion spurring on more questions. 

 

The Archangel shakes his head. “You think you're probably just a pawn in this game of chess, right? Playing with the other pawns, with the humans, but you are  _ so _ much bigger than that. You're bigger than the queen, bigger than even the king! Even if someone says otherwise! You can even be bigger than the player if you find out how to unlock all of this, if you  _ really _ think about it. You just have to think outside of the box, Sam!” 

 

Same pauses, taking in the information Gabriel had thrown at him. His hands shake the slightest. “Okay. If I'm not human, and I'm not a demon, then what the Hell am I? I don't have a craving for blood and I don't viciously kill people or take over bodies of anything like that. What  _ am _ I, Gabriel?” It's a plea for an answer, a reply to a question he knew he always had. 

 

His only hint at a reply is cryptic. It doesn't make sense. “You're like me, Sam.” Gabriel sighs and shakes his head, seemingly hurt by his own reply. He pops his fingers. “I have to send you back now. You  _ cannot  _ hunt me down, okay? I know you'd absolutely love to hunt and kill me, but last I checked, you don't have an angel blade. I won't take away your memories from this, they're going to help you in the future. I can give you a little more information, too. It'll help you, I promise.” 

 

Sam doesn't have time to react to Gabriel's cryptic message. A hand is pressing to his forehead, or more so two fingers. Sam's body jerks up, slamming forward and curlings up painfully. He heaves, chest rising and falling all too quickly for things to be okay. He's panicking and his mind is reeling. He can't help it. 

 

“Hey, hey, Sam, Sam, Sammy?” The car swerves to the side, though Sam can just barely tell. He tries to focus on his brother, especially as his hand is suddenly against the younger’s stomach, incredibly conscious of his chest. Dean's careful even in panicky situations. “Is this, like, a dream or-or a vision? Is it that shit?” 

 

Sam doesn't care about whatever Dean was going to say next. It was lost in the wind as he pulls his brother towards him, a half-hearted hug filling the car. It's honestly awkward, especially given their position, but Dean doesn't exactly fight it. Their family was full of toxic masculinity, which meant if someone gave a hug, they  _ needed _ that fucking hug. 

 

He finally speaks after a moment, when Sam's breathing had slowed and he seemed alright. Or, at least  _ better. _ “Dude, you okay? We already established that Tuesday crap was weird. Now you're hugging me, too, which is even weirder. What in the Hell is going on?” 

 

It takes more than just a moment for Sam to open up. It takes a fucking while of the two just sitting there on the side of the road, breathing with Sam still holding onto his brother like a lifeline, forcing himself to slowly calm down. 

 

He explains things slowly. He says that it was a dream, one of his freaky vision dreams, ones that were impending, had already happened, or were lost with their choices. Sam describes what happened, tastefully leaving out that Gabriel had killed him countless times beforehand, just keeping in that he had been shot by someone mugging him. 

 

Sam tastefully excludes the detail that the Trickster is  _ actually _ an archangel, specifically Gabriel. And he  _ especiall _ y leaves out the fact that Gabriel hinted at the possibility of Sam being an archangel, too. That would never go down correctly in a hunter family, especially not the Winchester family. 

 

Instead, he waits for the disgustingly angry dreams about the archangels. He unlocks them, slowly but surely, dots connecting more and more. The Morning Star seems to be the red one, though the cold confuses Sam. It seems so different, with Lucifer taking that place. The blue was obviously the Righteous, sometimes known as the Warrior. He worried Sam a little bit more than the rest. The purple had been the Healer, Raphael, though there really wasn't much information on him. And finally the Messenger, Gabriel. 

 

Sam can't piece together who in the Hell the final angel is. He's too big to be a normal angel, one that was obviously held importance to the world. He was too small to be an archangel, but his wings were far from a humans features. Despite all his attempts to piece together all of it, to find out, they go unchecked and pointless. The pieces don't connect.

 

He attempts to take reigns on finding knowledge, much to Ruby's own disapproval, but he seems to end up in jail. He befriends the other and escapes, which is better. Ruby protests more and more, though Sam couldn't actually care any less than he had. He had so many other things to worry about, things that weren't here plain annoyance. 

 

The two Winchesters meet the _Ghostfacers_ in the middle of Texas. It was a band of rather annoying _“ghost hunters,_ ” as they called themselves. They put their own beings in harm's way far too much, more of a safety risk than anything else. It was annoying, the two Winchesters having to baby the grown ass adults. At the very least, it was insulting or embarrassing for the group. 

 

Despite the fact that Sam gets captured and has another near-death situation, as most hunters were used to, he ends up fine, for the most part. There were bruises along his body, but he was generally okay. Unfortunately, Corbett doesn't exactly get out with a free pass like Sam had. He relives his death in front of the group. It was just an echo of his death, displayed in front of them, but still death, still gruesome and horrible to relive. They see his ghost's fear, see his features twist and hear his yells. That case was a rather gruesome one. 

 

More echoes are relived. The next case had multiple. Whispers would play through the lines of cellphones, sometimes coy, other times sharp, all just depending on who had called and the person who answered. The voices lulled their victims into suicide, words too commanding, too hung up on the past. The brother put a rather harsh stop to the ghost's antics. 

 

Despite there being yet  _ another _ near-death situation between the Winchester brothers, the two continue on with hunting. They act as if nothing had happened, which had become their version of normal at this point. They were practically adrenaline junkies, running on the after high of a hunt, knowing that they had correctly killed a monster. There were reproductions, of course, and bouts of anxiety or self-doubt, but they got by. They were doing good, despite knowing the older was riding the highway to Hell. 

 

However, between the cases that manage to involve Bela and the ones that don't, their tension begins to rise more and more. It grows rapidly. They're running out of time. Sam can feel it deep in his chest, the stench of death slowly beginning to radiate off of Dean. He can't help but cringe. It doesn't help that their worry begins to grow as well, painfully so. The worry only piles up with their disconnection. The room stinks of death. It makes Sam feel sick. He knows his brother had run out of time. 

 

The younger sees the outline of the Hellhounds, sees their exaggerated fangs and coarse fur. He’s forced go watched them move with a painful amount of grace, fangs bared and bodies low to the ground, making for stealthier movements. Sam finds his brother's corpse, finds the other death as a doorknob. It smells like iron, wet dog, and death. It's unmistakable, making his back screech out and latch onto its own newfound pain. He feels bitterly disgusting as the tears flood down his cheeks. He sobs with the newfound ache that plagued his soul like a horrid illness, spreading deeper and deeper, infecting more and more things. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, gah. 937 words turned into 2,206. This has little to no flow, either. I kept forgetting what I was saying/doing. 
> 
> Please comment! I want feed back and constructive criticism, y'all! 🅱lease


	5. Chapter 5

Within the next few months following the death of Dean Winchester, there was radio silence from any and all hunters that mourned his death. Every single creature with any powers linked to the supernatural heard two messages. They rung clear in both heaven and Hell could hear the screaming of an unknown voice. It was strong and full of power, as well as a sadness that not even the dead knew. Only one being recognized the voice, though he went unknown and in passing, locking himself out of heaven. There stood the words,  _ The Angel of Death mourns, _ much louder than humans could interpret. Many witches and other beings even went deaf with the yells. Windows had shattered around Sam, though he hadn't heard it, hadn't even noticed.  _ He _ was mourning. 

 

The second message was a call from yet another being. This one wasn't as strong, no, but it sure as Hell knocked something into those who heard it. This message holds a happiness to it that maybe only a sinner could know. And Sam hears the words loud as day, though it's night time. He was already plagued with horrid dreams, ones that haunt him with the return of his brother. Seeing this seemed to be just one of those painful flaunts of reality. However, he had gasped and slammed up at the words  _ Dean Winchester has been saved. _ His head and ears both ring painfully. 

 

They haunt him, the second set. Because Dean is actually  _ there _ and so is Bobby. It isn't just one of Sam's shitty dreams. Ruby had left, much to her own disappointment, because she had heard both calls, wanting to see how things played out. She knew the Winchesters had to do with both, though she was nowhere near figuring out how. She does note, though, that Dean stinks of something she's never once smelled. 

 

And Sam makes not of that too. It smells  _ angelic, _ and the burn on his arm the same. It was glowed blue beneath the lilt of darkness, he notes, but he isn't sure the others actually see it. He doesn't comment on it, mostly because both are yelling at him and accusing him of using something demonic in it. He can't focus. No, there's some angelic claim on his brother, he knows. It's all beginning to click, the face with blue eyes and black hair. He has no idea who the angel is, but he knows he has something to do with Dean being free. However, Sam can't pinpoint  _ which  _ angel it was. How he would be able to, he didn't know, but he knew he could somehow do it. He knows the angel is a seraph, at the least, appointed to his brother. His eyes widen and he does a double take at the realization, though he isn't exactly sure how he knows any of that. He ends up vomiting as a vision swirls around his head, one of Dean rising from the grave, but nothing more with it. He cringes and grimaces afterword. 

 

The seals were breaking more and more with each day. Raising Dean, that was one of the seals the  _ first _ seal, actually. Next was  _ The Rising of the Witnesses, _ one that left Sam feeling disgusted. There had been a face passed between it that had faded out as if it were meant to be there, but for someone else, for some other version of this. His worry fills his own mind, overflowing like a sink. Ruby only spurs on his anxiety as she backs up the proof that they were actually seals. 

 

And it grows even  _ fucking more _ when Dean manages to find himself fessing up that  _ Castiel, _ his savior angel, had taken him back in time. Dean had to explain with an edge in his voice that Mary, their absolute  _ saint of a fucking mother, _ was the reason Sam had demon's blood coursing through his veins. It had been a deal gone sour, one that would kill her in the future. Sam feels guilty nonetheless, even if he knew damn well that it wasn't his fault. He had been a fucking  _ baby. _ At least he finally got to know which angel his brother had become the bitch of. 

 

Despite having the knowledge that his brother had demon's blood in him, he had never actually accounted for the fact that Sam could use that power, could utilize it and make it work. Dean hated finding out. Sam had raised the point that he was actually dispelling the demons from their hosts and killing or sending them back to Hell without actually killing their host, something they could only do with exorcisms beforehand, things that took far too long and had mixed results. Sam could do his version in mere seconds. 

 

The tension just builds between the two after Sam lashes out at the older. It builds to disgustingly high amounts. Now, Dean looks at Sam the same way their father had, cold and distant. That had been years ago, something Sam had thought he'd moved on from. However, he clearly hadn't. It's a reminder that Dean was so much like John. It stings like a red hot fire poker pressed to his skin, branding him with trauma. Their abusive father had been erased from his mind for a while until days before, when that first glimpse had reminded him on the other's face. Their trust had dwindled into a thin line that day. 

 

He hates the flashbacks that he gets from the demons when he sends them down. Many of them had actually been witnesses to his family and their life. He finds that a little creepy, honestly, but they were demons, of  _ course  _ they were creepy. They managed to find ways to hurt him the most. They would taunt him with turns of his family, with things the oldest Winchester had done, with things even his grandparents and mother had done. Those were painful, but also incredibly annoying. 

 

He does meet Castiel, and much sooner than he actually expects, as well as Raphael. However, any and all hyperactive puppy-dog-ish-ness was thrown down within an instant. As much as he  _ knew _ Castiel had been the one to save his brother, as well as the one in his vision, he was also displaying the other archangel. The archangel held his wings out, the outline just barely spotted, yet knowingly a display of him being higher than the two.  _ Two? _ Sam finches at the feelings he's overwhelmed with. Recognition and guilt, though he has no idea how and much less  _ why. _

 

Dean attempts to get answers from his younger brother. He wants to know why Sam's mood had done a full one-eighty in the span of two milliseconds and why he suddenly seemed on edge. He especially wanted to know when Sam gave the gruff, overbearing greeting to the second angel, a stiff,  _ “Raphael,”  _ leaving the younger. 

 

The grace seems to flare up as he sees Sam, which makes his stomach tighten into a rough, painful knot. When Dean manages to ask how in the Hell Sam had known who it was, the other younger had shrugged. He himself was as confused as could be. He quickly chalked it up to the demon blood, but that excuse was beginning to become played out at this point. He pins it as the source of his issues so commonly that even he was sick of it. It was no longer lining up. 

 

The two announce that they're going to smite a town and- Yeah, yeah, Sam can't take that,  _ won't _ take that. He quickly accuses the archangel with a pointed index finger. “You're supposed to  _ heal, _ Raphael, be a human's shepherd. You aren't supposed to kill them!” 

 

For some reason, the other’s voice seems to deepen, commanding and full of power. Dean flinches. “That I am, Sam, but if we do not do this, it will break the seal. There are only sixty-six of them and they truthfully will not take that long to break all of them.” It's a rumbling deepness that Sam can tell it's his true voice, something that he  _ knows _ he has heard before at some point in time. Not recently, no, but at  _ some point. _ It's just edging on being hit true voice, a tiny hint at it, but it was there nonetheless. 

 

More angels had managed to join in their ranks, join in the fight that the Winchester brothers had supposedly started. Uriel, one that Sam recognizes from dreams when he was younger, sends threats. They seem real, of course, they had to, but Sam  _ knows _ they're not. He knows the angel is lying through his teeth. He was no more a righteous man than his vessel, nor Castiel or Sam  _ or  _ Dean. The last may have been an exaggeration because Dean  _ was _ the  _ Righteous Man, _ of course, but it was still there nonetheless. Sam had been infected with demon's blood and  _ something else _ that he couldn't - or rather  _ refused to  _ \- pinpoint or find out what it was. He didn't want to acknowledge it, honestly. 

 

But then angels, they  _ need _ Sam, physically need him. They need him to “start the apocalypse,” to just get it over with. He was one of the most important pieces in their game of chess. Gabriel had said that he could've been the player, could've changed up everything. He said that the younger could be on the very top if he damn well pleased, or at least near it. He could make it, just as long as he learned how. If he learned what to do would probably help, too. 

 

The results of Gabriel's talk may not have been immediate, but they sure as fuck stuck with Sam. A lot of his memories had, of course, but this one haunted his dreams more than just once. It had taken a year for it to actually set in, for it to finally begin making sense, for it to really be apparent in his life. And now it was. It truly was. Because now the young Winchester knew he was changing the world himself.  _ He _ was shaping the outcome so much more than nearly anyone could comprehend. He was ensuring the world survived  _ somehow. _ He just raised their chances more and more. Sam Winchester would be the world's savior, no matter what anyone said, his own brother included. 

 

Sam had suspicions his brother remembered Hell, even if the other explicitly said he didn't. It was the way the other flinched at certain things, the way his hand occasionally hovered over Castiel's claim on his shoulder as if it was his last lifeline instead of a genuine saving grace. Sam doesn't blame him. He himself would belittle his trauma as much as possible. He doesn't tell his brother about the dreams unless it was something big or important, anyway. That was just a Winchester thing. For some reason, Sam thought Mary would be the exact same, just a Winchester with sneaky lies and a silver tongue. However, he didn't dare ask his brother. 

 

When Ruby leads Sam to the next seal, he can't help but hate her. It's unbridled and it makes his back burn with anger. This feeling felt old, the angry reminder of abandonment. It still felt just as old as it had when he first felt it when he was younger when Dean found it better to leave with his father than stay with his younger brother. They both left him in times where he more likely than not needed them the most, though no Zana could save him from his own self anymore. 

 

Every single angel that Sam meets feels familiar. Some of them he even knows the name of before they had attempted an introduction. They all felt older now.  _ Now? _ Sam was pretty sure he hadn't known them? Maybe in a past life, if those existed, but sure as Hell hadn't known them in  _ this _ life. He knew that every single demon he had taken down or killed had never seen an angel face to face. They were never high enough to do that,  _ ever. _ Azazel had been a close  _ maybe, _ but everyone else was lower class, far too low to actually have seen one. It was unbearably annoying to not know how he knew these  _ things _ within his life. 

 

They stumble onto a girl with red hair, sitting in a mental hospital because she kept  _ “hearing voices.“ _ Sam's mind shoots off like a gun, screaming that she's a fallen angel. He  _ knows _ she is, even knows that he had, in fact, seen her before. His senses sharpen in ways that he was far from actually understanding. It was maybe alarm, worry, a million possibilities came to his mind, but the one that seemed to make the most sense was it being a parental instinct, something Sam had never once actually considered. He pushed the thought away within an instant's notice. 

 

Within the next few days, he and Dean discover that there was actually a demon hot on their tail, one of which neither thinks will end up well in the end. Yeah, it doesn't. 

 

With Dean lashing out so much more, he reveals what he and Ruby have been doing. He tells him about the way the demon had actually been teaching him how to correctly use his powers. She had been keeping her promise, making him stronger. She had been saved him. Ruby kept him from collapsing into a horrible cycle of self-destructive shit that would've been his demise. His visions had led him into knowing for a fucking  _ fact  _ that that was the best option, even if the outcome was going to still be shitty. At least the world wouldn't end. There were going to be a bunch of shitty things, of course, but they would painfully make it through this shit. 

 

Sam selectively avoids voicing his plans. He can't voice them, not if he wants to do them. Using his powers and charging through Hell while being barely armed wouldn't actually help them do shit in this, even if he was demanding his brother's soul back. Somehow, he  _ knew _ that there was something in Hell that made him  _ truly _ untouchable, whether it be his own power or the fact that he wasn't entirely human. He had a knight of Hell's blood in his veins. He knew he was truthfully intended for the throne, even if the vision was something distant that he kept to himself. 

 

The vision was just another thing that haunted him. It was nothing more than a version of himself sitting on the throne, one leg crossed over the other. Black wings stayed encased behind him, though his entire figure was encased in a dark shadow. He was just barely lit up by the flames that smeltered behind the throne. His irises glowed a bright purple, burning through his nightmares. That stayed in his mind for a while. 

 

More guns go off in Sam's head as his assumption of Anna being an extra bit  _ not _ human is actually confirmed. His heart hammers in his chest and his back feels like nails are pressing into his shoulder blades and forcing them to separate. He worries for her, as well as himself. How had he known that? What had been spurred inside of him to actually recognize her, as well as the other angels? He wasn't supposed to  _ know that. _ The knowledge makes him sick to his stomach. Every single time it's brought up, his entire body gets tense, his shoulder blades feeling like genuine knives pressing to his skin. However, with the angels constantly appearing in and out of their lives, the young Winchester knew he was far from being pulled out of his mind. There was no possible way to just push it back, not when Dean constantly brought along the scent of an angel. It was damn near impossible. 

 

Unfortunately for Sam, he also finds out that he's the only Winchester that hasn't had sex in the back of the Impala. That's something that honestly disgusted him more than he let on. In fact, he ends up cleaning the seat with holy water, soap, and disinfectant rags. He had woken up early enough not to get caught by Dean, but it had only been because dreams had plagued his sleep, horrible visions with a version of himself in a white suit. Actually, that sort of shocks Sam into an awkward system of robotic responses. He doesn't seem like himself, he knows, but Dean knew to take it as one of those nights. He had seen only a few, but it was passively okay. Sam was still pretty pissed about the other having sex in the back, especially since he was always the one pinned into sleeping there. 

 

Soon, Sam begins to passively manipulate his brother. He feels disgusting for gaslighting his own brother, especially growing up with his own passive version from his brother and father, as well as his own dreams. He has the best intentions at heart, though. Unfortunately, though, it ends up in a silent truce between the two siblings. There was a slight concern if Ruby was included or not. 

 

Eventually, after many upon many fights between angels, Anna gets her grace back. Even demons had joined in with the fight over her grace, only to be slightly disappointed at her for it. Both sides were desperate to get information on the fallen angel. They want to prevent her from doing anything… _ Dumb, _ as Ruby selectively words. She's so incredibly careful with her phrases, making sure not to piss off either of the Winchesters or really anyone that listens. Unfortunately, the oldest Winchester and the demon both manage to betray each other. Fortunately for Sam, it works out just fine, just as his dreams depicted it would. He was thankful for that, of course, but he still felt incredibly bad for it. 

 

The next case is rough, to say the least. Dean actually glares at his brother, annoyance clear as he accuses, “Suddenly your whole supernatural mojo finder is completely gone? Not even a vision or anything?” 

 

Sam rolls his eyes at the older, annoyed. He tosses his own glare at him. “No, you ass, it's not gone. You still smell like you fucked seven angels. I just don't feel anything around here. It smells like human, dog, and death.” 

 

If Dean could make daggers and pierce people's skin with them with a glare, Sam would sure as Hell be dead. “So there are no ghosts. Not a werewolf? Literally nothing at all?” 

 

Sam groans. “There is  _ nothing, _ Dean, okay?” His annoyance was painfully clear. “I don't feel anything. There's just angel grace on you, that's really it.” 

 

An eyebrow raises. “How can you smell angel, anyway?” 

 

“I don't exactly  _ smell _ angel.” He pulls away from the home, his wrist painfully popping as he slips his gun into its holster. He wants to complain about it or maybe even jokingly comment that he's getting old, but he doesn't. Instead, he returns to explaining. “It's sort of like a feeling, I guess. Vampires and werewolves, they actually leave a smell. So do a lot of other crap does, too. And the rest of them are senses or they leave a physical trace that I can just kind of see. Angels leave grace. You can sort of see it. It glows blue. The mark Cas left on you glowed for a while, actually. I can hear it and I can feel it in my chest. It feels kind of like buzzing and my chest gets right. Not fear or pain type of tight? Maybe an anticipation type of tight. I'm not exactly sure.” He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

 

There's a moment before Dean echoes, “Buzzes?” He tilts his head and cocks his hip out, his body language sticking out the obvious notions of disbelief. 

 

Sam nods. “Buzzes,” he confirms, “just like how witches buzz when you get a little bit too close. That's the sort of buzz I-”

 

“Witches don't buzz,” Dean interrupts the other, even more confused than before. 

 

The younger lets out a prolonged groan at Dean, turning to his side. His annoyance is even clearer than before, which was near impossible but somehow achieved. He continues to move through the halls, now sporting a blade instead of a gun. Something about the situation made it feel like a bad would do better than a rock salt loaded gun would, no matter how small. His shoulders weren't hurting in the least. “Well,” he groans, “I guess it's just a demon blood thing, then. I'm don't fucking know.” 

 

“Don't get your panties in a bunch, Sam. You sure this is just demons blood? The demons that I've chatted with have all said they sew people’s real faces or their souls, not smell them.” 

 

Sam is silently thankful that his brother is turned away from him, especially as he flinches so harshly. He peaks back at the other, finding him still distracted. “Well, Azazel was also a knight of Hell, remember? He was ruling while Lucifer was dormant. He's one of  _ the _ strongest demons to ever be made. There are only two or three other knights, I think - I really can't remember which it was and I really don't care - but the point here is that he had powers that no other beings could have, ones that the demons could only ever  _ dream of. _ Maybe one of the other knights of Hell have the same issue as I do? I’m not fucking psychic. Maybe of them even know how to shank an angel and not have the bright, burn-y after effects?” He really shouldn't have gotten as pissed as he was, but he was now standing face to face with his brother, angry with the older. He shouldn't  _ be annoyed. _ It was a simple question. “I  _ really _ don't feel anything here, Dean. Not a fucking thing at all. Maybe there was a witch here a  _ long _ time ago, but I really can't feel anything else.” 

 

Dean let's there be a moment between the two, waiting for the other to calm down. Suddenly, he reels back, his only words being, “Wait, wait, so I  _ buzz?” _

 

Thankfully, Sam seemed calm. He pops his back, forcing himself to relax more. “The grace on you, it buzzes, yeah. It's remains of an angel. It's just like it did with Anna. Well, Anna more hummed than she buzzed, honestly. It was different.” 

 

The older Winchester just sort of rolls his eyes at the last sentence. He didn't seem annoyed, no, more so just a little peeved at her being brought up. 

 

As the two find, the case was actually  _ far _ from anything actually supernatural. It had been twins. They were simply the product of incest, so damn desperate to defend their home. They weren't even aware of the fact that they were doing something harmful to the others. It was disgusting in multiple ways. Sam pities them in multiple ways. They had a far too sheltered life, an abusive  _ “father, _ ” an so on. Dean, however, sympathizes with them. He's so aware of what he had done in Hell. It was something that he flushed through his mind every  _ single day. _ Sam attempts to let the other know that he was there for him. His comfort doesn't go unnoticed not in the least. It just gets brushed off, occasionally meeting a glare. 

 

A lot of things end up getting brushed by Sam and Dean alike. One of those things is the fact that Sam was  _ still _ consuming demons blood. As much as Dean wants him to stop, Sam can only push aside the older's concerns. He doesn't  _ completely  _ stop, but he does tune it down a rather large amount. He continues to follow Ruby, the two out on a “quest” of sorts to take down Lilith. They team up together, moving forward on their plans in sync. They - or at least  _ Sam -  _ doesn't want all the seals to break. 

 

Sam knows he shouldn't team up with Ruby. She's a  _ demon, _ after all, and there were  _ very few _ times that that would actually work out. For some reason, Sam already knew that well enough. When he thinks about it, his stomach churns. It twists and coils, makes him want to shout. Twist, coil, curl, whatever synonym he could use, they were all there. It didn't matter which one he used. The only thing he knows for certain is that it makes him feel absolutely fucking sickly. He does end up vomiting more than once. However, there's was a gigantic part of him that always seemed to scream that this was supposed to happen. For some reason, he knew it was the best outcome, one of the very few that gave him the option to save everything. It didn't stop him from feeling like the genuine definition of shit, though. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4,161 words. The original was 1,574 words. I don't like this chapter so much. It seems bad, tbh. 
> 
> Also, I've never read Twist and Shout and honestly I'm too scared to. I read, like the beginning of the first chapter, but that was it.


	6. Chapter 6

Sam hates bringing up his past, no matter what happens. He avoids it no matter how much it costs him. However, when he's suddenly presented with a past school bully, he has no actual idea of how to properly respond. Actually, how  _ should _ someone respond? He wants to respond the best he can, as well off as is possible, but it's fucking  _ hard _ and it's almost im-fucking-possible. He attempts to take the pacifist route. That was his go to, as always. He always wanted to do that. He hated going with any sort of harshness at all. Sam always wanted there to be an out. If his father couldn't give him that, then God be damned, he would at least give the paranormal that option. He wanted to avoid killing at all given instances. If he didn't have to kill someone, then he sure as Hell wouldn't. That was his automatic go to in life. 

 

Every once in a while, killing actually felt right. That made him feel so disgustingly horrified with everything. He gets nightmares, ones that are progressively getting worse over time. With these predicting his future, he takes each and every one to heart, as always. He lets them lead. There are times when they feel exactly right, perfect as can be. And those disgust him, make him want to vomit, makes his stomach coil to the point that he doesn't eat how hours, sometimes even days. Unfortunately, those were the best outcomes, the ones that only manages to save more people. They're the best, as well as one of the few “okays” in their days. 

 

Sam and Dean both know they're making the world a better place, as well as sending a lot of them to better places (ghost wise, that is), but it still got to him. It would drag him down for days, weeks, sometimes even months, all just depending on how attached he’d gotten to someone in the span of their case. Unfortunately, he seemed to get attached far too quickly, far too easily. It makes him sick with the amount of love he carries for humanity.  _ Humanity? _ He has to rethink his thoughts after that. It just adds to his nightmare fuel, to his list of traumas that he's faced within his shit life. Yeah, he throws up a time or two during cases. 

 

Sam can't answer the simple question. He knows he should be able to, but he simply  _ can't. _ He could always lie a way out of a situation, it was one of his best qualities, a genuinely defining one that he probably shouldn't hold to heart, despite the fact that he actually  _ did. _ However, he felt  _ obligated _ to tell the truth to the man that had helped give him inspiration for college. The question at hand was if he was happy. He just can't answer it, not with a blunt reply. He turns it through his head for days, weeks, months, something he knows will be years.  _ Was _ he happy? There were moments were things were good, despite the fire that always burned in the background, and those  _ good _ moments were his only  _ Best _ s that he could describe. What was he supposed to say to the other man? 

 

Sam stutters out with his reply, still unable to. He wants an out. In fact, he  _ needs _ an out from this conversation. He has to get the Hell out or he'll panic. He already knew he was going to spiral at some point, something long and pointless, even inevitable at this point, but this would spur it on far too early. He would be useless for months, and that just wasn't something Sam wanted, much less needed. Yeah, he couldn't do that. He pulls away as fast as he can, getting the fuck out of that conversation so he can avoid it. He's simply  _ not happy, _ that was something he knew. He had missed Jess so much more than he should, as well as missed someone that he held deep in his heart, though he still had no actual idea  _ who _ that person was. 

 

When would he actually be happy once again? He knew it wasn't soon, not with the feeling of death he found radiating off of people. He especially wouldn't with the angels that always loomed in the background as well. They already radiate not only the same stench as death itself but instead just something he just can not seem to gauge. It worries him even more. It feels like fear, but it mixes with sadness. So very few angels don't carry this feeling. 

 

Castiel is one of those angels. It especially helps the young Winchester when the same near-death dream appears once again. This time, though, when the archangels are looking away, the one in the middle sharply turns to Sam, a hand reaching out for  _ him _ as if the knowing thought that Sam was actually an abomination didn't matter, as if he was a savior. Blue eyes light up with angel grace, making them burn bright in the pitch black  _ nothing. _

 

Sam stops feeling so queasy in his presence. Instead, he feels something so starkly  _ different. _ It's all a wave of  _ comfort _ as if he was nothing more than an old friend. If Sam had actually had lives beforehand, ones where there was the possibility of knowing him, Sam was deathly convinced they had been friends or at least known each other well enough to be closer than the normal  _ others _ in his life. 

 

Life doesn't seem to be getting any easier as they realize that they've basically got a fucking curse on their backs. The “Winchester's dumbass curse” - by Dean's exact wording, not Sam's - seems to forcefully pull them apart before bashing their noggins back together with a painful, skull-shattering  _ whap, _ one that leaves Sam with an angry migraine. It's so fucking annoying on both of them. Every single time they finally managed to get any closer to each other,  _ bam, _ they were in a harsh contrast once again, just as bad as square one, if not worse. It was as if they were rewriting bases each and every single time. It left them with an amazingly colorful set of words for both each other  _ and _ fate itself. 

 

Making deals with demons doesn't help them, either. Sam should've known that. He really should have, but he was a Winchester, so common sense was always replaced with dramatic decisions and suggestions. His brother was living proof of that. It would be their fucking downfall. While Dean holds more deals than his brother -  _ currently _ \- it doesn't stop them from feeling the malice they point at each other daily without remorse. With their separation and the slight time that had passed, a wave of anger had been born, one that was taking them over, brutally so. 

 

Sam was so angry with Dean, ways that he hadn't been since he was a heartbroken child first learning what it was like to walk out alone, on the side of the road with so little to genuinely look forward to. At that time, he had a long distance friendship, one of the very few things still keeping him going. Now, though, Sam was constantly reminded that things were different. He knew his brother had looked at him differently. If they had compared his past self from his “pre-Stanford era” - yet  _ another _ claim from Dean -  to his current self, there would be something clear. Dean’s concern was so much more concealed now, something he had learned over time, but it was still ever so present, physically there,  _ constantly  _ haunting him. He lingered a little longer, his looks a little more… well, Sam wasn't actually sure how to describe it. It just reminded him of his father, far,  _ far _ too much. The discovery of demons blood had changed both of them. Sam can only pray it was for the best. 

 

But Dean was so bitter with Sam because of what he felt the other was belittling his time in Hell. All that shit had been traumatic. While Sam knowingly still had an occasional dream or two about Jessica - once a week, at least, actually but Dean didn't need to know that - Dean still had nightmares almost every single time he had closed his eyes. It was ever present. It had changed him so drastically. He had changed up so many things about himself, even if they were barely noticeable, nothing more than tiny details, the things that made him the  _ Dean freakin’ Winchester _ that he had grown into. It had drastically changed him, made him closer to the angel. That may have been the only  _ okay _ he had gotten out of that. 

 

If only the two had actually understood how fucking  _ ironic _ their situation was. Sam, of all people, should've, as he had a front row seat to their future, played on the big screen that was  _ his mind _ every single night. He experienced it when he snapped his eyes shut. He should've known how ironic their situations were, even with their  _ pasts  _ on display, with Dean belittling his experience with Jess while he looked at his brother so starkly different, colder. They had both changed since then, much calmer while also much less pieced together. It was… a  _ process, _ to say the least. A destructive process, yeah. 

 

Their future was formed by their own decisions. As typical “white parent” styled existing it was for that to be said, it was true. Their death notebooks were marked with odd scratches, ones that didn't exactly align correctly. Hell, many of them were even blank, yet to be arranged by fate. Her hands were tied with the two, unable to write but not unable to somehow assist with changing their stories best she could. They were, unfortunately, promised hellish night terrors, ones that made their current ones a kiddy ride at a fair. Sam had seen hints of a few, but he had yet to make sense of them. How in the _Hell_ would he make sense of them? The blonde with red wings haunted him constantly, stalking over his own shoulder with a devious smirk and devil-like attitude - the _fucking irony_ \- that annoyed the young Winchester. 

 

The two were adults. They had surpassed the childhood stage the instant they had said they were scared of the dark or what may have been in the closet, handed a forty-five without remorse for his actions from John Winchester. They had painful lives, ones that would forever haunt the halls of their mind palace. Impending nightmares and painful truths had yet to be revealed, but they eventually would be. That… well, that was just as petrifying as some of the nightmares. 

 

While Dean relives their cases, Sam plans them on. More often than not, he had not only been the one to find them, but also who had planned them. His dreams gave him passive hints at what to look for and what to avoid, which always came in handy. He knows what to do, how to handle certain situations. Thankfully, Dean trusted his brother's instincts and know how. It may have just been tiny pieces of information that Sam knew how to use correctly, but they got the two pretty damn far. 

 

There are moments, though, that Sam feels different, those moments being when he's a  _ ghost. _ Well, he isn't actually much of a ghost. He feels more like an echo, though he has no idea how he knows he feels like that. It's rather awkward. He does, however, feel so incredibly free. It's a stark difference to how he normally feels, dragged down by the clunky feeling of a meat suit.  _ Body. _ Sam meant to think  _ body. _ He feels weightless. It's an amazing feeling. 

 

However, he wasn't excited to see Dean's hand in his stomach. Now  _ that _ felt awkward, his body buzzing where Dean's hand was. It felt like how angel grace did, but  _ different. _ This feels more like he was touching a soul head on, which he  _ was, _ but the younger Winchester had no idea how he knew what it even felt like in the first place. “Am I making you uncomfortable,” he asks with a smirk, as casual as he can possibly be. 

 

If not for the fact that Sam would have physically gone through the other, he would have slapped the older in the back of his held. However, his classic  _ bitch face _ seems to do the trick, successfully convincing his brother that he was pissed off without actually having to voice it to him. He pulls back, still smiling. Sam wasn't annoyed with that, no, but it still bothers him for some reason. He totally doesn't want to yell at Dean. Nope, not at all. He just wants to yell at a wall. 

 

He meets Tessa. The reaper if different, just like he and Dean. She's not demon blood or human-related, no, but she's paranormal and it's  _ clear. _ Her eyes swirl with yellow, similar to what it looks like when milk and water mix, but so much more relaxing. He prefers that look to milk and water, though, if he’s being honest. Tessa is a calming presence in their awkward lulling. However, she was there for the purpose of taking Dean, of reaping his soul. Originally, Sam had thought the feeling of death had come with the fact that he was actually  _ dead, _ by all accounts, but that changes when he hears Tessa's words. It’s not like when he kills things. They don't see happy grim reapers, there to help them, pull them into the calm and good. They just disappear, given up on by the reapers and death itself. Not even monsters see them. They just disappear, flitting into somewhere else. Seeing a reaper face to face, it's weird. He isn't exactly opposed to people going simply, Hell no, but it was just a thing he hadn't exactly considered. He wasn't going to just get taken by a reaper, which is something he knows deep inside of him, but he prefers that thought over any. 

 

Tessa, unfortunately, can't teach them  _ much. _ She's a reaper, not a human soul, meaning her powers are different than theirs. She just takes souls and puts them where they should be. She  _ especially _ can't after she gets captured. That's just another thorn in the Winchester's side, which annoys them even  _ more, _ as well as add worry to the two. Their levels of worry are different, though. Dean's is just general worry, something he feels for everyone when he knows something bad was going to happen or already had. However, Sam's feels more parental, as if he was supposed to be babysitting Tessa. It's an odd feeling on him. He can't say he likes it. 

 

However, another soul  _ does _ help them, and a lot so. Cole, as they find, had been there for a while. He’s calm and he can teach them pretty quick, which is amazing, given that they hadn't been “dead” very long. He shows them how to moves things, how to even fuck with electricity without moving power switches, though he does comment that it's much easier than getting into the electricity itself. Dean has to take a try or two to get at it, but Sam gets at it just fine, amazingly so. It's as if he had already known how to. It felt just as normal as breathing. However, the fact that it felt  _ right _ didn't sick correctly in his chest. He hated the emotions that the attempt brings with him. It wasn't how demon blood felt, when it was coursing through his veins with the promise of power. The demon's blood always felt as if he was using it wrong while simultaneously feeling just fine. They both felt like they were meant to be  _ and _ like he had done them before, but this one was calmer on him. He isn't opposed to this  _ completely, _ but he drops whatever he was holding after a worrisome flash.

 

However, that flash was awkward. It makes his head and chest ache, though that's physically impossible, as ghosts can rarely feel pain and he has neither a physical form nor a reason to feel it. It felt as if he had been trained to do all of this within his free time, within his childhood. He knows he hasn't, though. His vision goes blurry as he drops it, stumbling away with a hun. Dean doesn't notice, though Cole's brows furrow slightly in concern. Everything loses its edge, images of darkness flickering through his mind. The darkness follows with an image of pure white wings. They aren't his, which he isn't sure why he'd even  _ assume _ they were his, but he does. They flicker away just as quickly as they had appeared, though Dean is suddenly picking up something else. Sam straightens up just in time for the older to show him what he was doing, proud of his handy work. However, everything alright must come to an end at some point, whether it be beautifully tied up in a bow or not, it still had to. 

 

It abruptly ends when Pamela asks for a drink. They both know damn well that she isn't going to fucking make it. She smells just like death itself, her time creeping closer and closer to them all. He feels sick to his stomach. It churns and boils, as always. This isn't like when people are on the edge of death, just before it. No, instead, she stinks up the entire room. It practically boils with how tense both of them are. She had surpassed the edge. It was like a cartoon, one where someone would be standing off the edge after running too far, looking down, then back at the camera with an impending look of doom. Sam begrudgingly gets her that drink, returning with it in hand. She accepts, though her lips with never actually touch the rim, or really anything on it. 

 

She pulls Sam down, whispering in his ear, “I know what you're doing with that demon, Sam. I can feel what's inside you, what you're doing with her. If you think that's wrong, think again.” His eyes widen as he inhales her words, taking them in with a frown. How was he supposed to take that? Should he keep doing it? Should he stop? “You're less human than you are anything else.” 

 

His eyes widen more. He's tempted to pull away, to have a full conversation, including Dean with it, but the fear of getting himself ganked by his own brother stops him. Within a split second, he's asking a question, only to get ripped away from it. “Then, what-”

 

She scoffs out, “I'm not telling you, Sam. I'm sure you know exactly what you are.” Pamela”s voice shakes as her lips curl into a coy smile. “Either way, you're not opening that can of worms any time soon, especially not if I help you. But… You will  _ eventually _ find out how to, I can promise you that.” She lets out a wet hack, something that makes Sam want to cringe, but he's a little too focused on her words, clinging to each and every syllable. She sharply pulls away, slumping against the bed frame, a final cough leaving her. Sam peers at her, watching the life slip from her lips,  _ literally. _ He can see the outline of her soul, of a reaper standing there with as calming of a smile as they can hold. 

 

The two Winchesters call out her name, but Sam knows better. He can see her pass one last smile off to them, waving. Pamela mouths the words,  _ Goodbye Sam. _ He watches her and the reaper disappear, the two gone just as suddenly as they had come. She was gone as could be. 

 

The two were tense when they got in the car. Dean hadn't really cared when Sam had vomited in the bathroom, just calmly telling him he was going to burn the body. The other coughs out an okay, not minding as his brother leaves. He lets the younger lay in the bathroom for a moment or two, steeling his nerves the best he can. 

 

They silently slip into the car letting the music roll through the speakers. There was a moment or two of them letting each other be, letting the atmosphere stir and settle on its own. They were both in pain from this situation. However, Dean breaks that silence to ask, “What did she say to you?” 

 

Sam doesn't answer him. He doesn't feel like he can. That level of trust was something he hadn't lent to anyone yet. Maybe Jess would've known, but she had passed, and he needed to move the fuck on. He himself was still processing his words to his best ability. But his best ability only went so far. He at least  _ knew _ he was an angel or at least some form of something like it. Hell, he may have just been a Nephilim descendent, but that would mean Dean would be, too. Maybe the demon's blood had activated his powers somewhat? Or at least spurred them on? Even if he  _ was _ an actual angel, no angel names felt familiar to him. Despite all his research, he couldn't tell who he was. None of them felt like his own, as if he had been his own being. It felt more like descriptive words than actual names. 

 

Sam relapses, though. He relapses  _ bad, _ going to new lengths. He should care, he  _ knows _ he should, but he simply doesn't. He can't, despite the fact that he wants to. She had said it was wrong, but her words had been misleading, and he just couldn't make much sense out of them. Was he supposed to continue on? Was he supposed to stop? What in the  _ fuck _ did that mean? 

 

Sam knows that if he doesn't do this, though, the world will be fucked up in some other way. He hadn't cleansed the world, no, he knew that, but he was helping out with saving it. He wasn't going to even attempt to cleanse it. He isn't sure how he knows, much less why it actually matters, but he feels it so disgusting deep inside of him. He wanted to help out the world in any way possible, even if it meant putting himself directly in the line of fire. He had found it out years ago, when he was just a child, with that deep feeling in his chest. 

 

He knows that Dean rising wasn't  _ actually _ the first seal, despite the fact that they had been told it was the first one to break. No, no, it couldn't be that. People rose from the dead all the time, that was nothing. It was probably breaking the righteous man. Maybe it had been something along those lines? He doesn't want to ask. Asking most likely meant confirmation, not denial. Sam wasn't able to handle confirmation, not then. Unfortunately, Ruby couldn't care less, not as she confirms to him that, yes, breaking him was the first seal. She also supplies with him the fact od  _ I think an angel just died. _ She doesn't give him context, doesn't need to, because he feels it. He can feel the painful disturbance it leaves on him. 

 

Sam wasn't sure how he knew. Ruby had only felt it because she thought she had interacted with the angel before, perhaps. Sam, however, had felt it like every single angel that had died beforehand. There weren't that many, not yet, but he still felt it all. His chest would buzz softly and feel like it was tightening, coiling. Yeah, he didn't like that feeling at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 884 words into 3,955. No flow, as always UwU


	7. Chapter 7

_ Samael Wesson _ felt disgusting when he woke up. He felt bile rising in his throat, as if something unnatural as going on, or he had drunk three jars of pickles without any thoughts on the repercussions. He didn't know how he knew his way to work. The roads all felt new to him as moved through the streets, stoic despite everything. He had taken his medicine, right? Actually, Sam had no idea. 

 

The building itself feels oddly new to him, too. He feels like he's completely new to it. In fact, it makes him feel absolutely disgusted with himself, as if this were cursed land to walk on. His stomach tight end and the room smells sort of like burnt cheese or an exploded hotdog after you microwave it for a little too long. Actually, the smell seems to follow Sam. He pauses more than once, doing a once over of not only himself but the room and  _ everything else. _ It totally  _ doesn't _ make his stomach lurch. 

 

_ Samael Wesson _ knows that a coworker had died around them, though he didn't know the exact cause, much less the how's or why's. The coworker had been someone on his floor, underneath him in rank. He was just a common worker, maybe an accountant at best, he really didn't know. Samael couldn't care less. 

 

He plops in his seat, pausing for the millionth time that morning. In fact, he has to breathe, take more than a few breaths. Everything feels overwhelming. His emotions were swelling and overwhelming him within seconds. Sam's mind fumbles. It seems like something was gripping as his mind, their nails digging into his mind. His chest feels painfully tight, itching and burning and  _ aching _ so horribly. It doesn't help that his back suddenly feels like its nails are scraping and digging. The young worker’s mind wanders to places he doesn't understand. It feels oddly formal, as well as familiar in ways he should have felt. His back burns. Maybe he was being branded? That's what it felt like. But how in the fuck would he know that? Or, well, maybe he's getting stabbed again and again. How in the  _ fuck _ would he know  _ that, _ too? 

 

He ends us working with Dean Smith, someone who feels just as familiar as the rest of the feelings. Yeah, he feels pretty fuckinh disgusting with all these known emotions. He can't exactly gingerly handle any of it, either. It feels like the two were drawn to each other. Even Dean acknowledges it. 

 

Sam, at the end of it all, decides to continue hunting it. It's painful, of course, but he feels like he can deal with it, as long as it means he saves lives in the process. It doesn't feel that bad, thankfully. Or, well, it did, but he lied professionally so he could sure as Hell get by. Sam has no idea how he knows that, but he does. His instincts were burnt into him.  _ Just like an iron, or getting branded, _ he reminds himself once again. Nothing could stop him, not after his mind was as made up as it was. He could learn. He was  _ already  _ learning, even of instincts had already told him what everything was and how to handle it. 

 

Dean, however, had decided otherwise. He didn't  _ want  _ the life. Hell, he had said he wanted the fuck out of it before ever even going in. It's a soft let down for the younger, but it still hurts, for some fucking reason. 

 

Sam pauses.  _ He _ doesn't want to fight. Did he? Did  _ Samael? _ Hadn't he flown to escape this all? Where had the word  _ flown _ come from?  _ Samael Wesson _ had a family! He had a wife named Jessica and two dogs, Shurley and Xylophone, Xylophone currently being pregnant with exactly seven puppies on the way.  _ Dean Smith _ had a wife, Lisa Braeden, and a son, Ben Braeden, and a daughter, Emma Smith, with another daughter on the way that he was going to name Samantha! 

 

But everything disappears the instant he's given his memories back. They flood in with a sickly amount of emotion. He doesn't vomit, no, but Sam gets rather close. His eyes glow purple, something he isn't used to.  _ Samael, _ that's the name he has, the name he uses, he  _ used. _ Zachariah's grace looms through his entire body. It's not a new feeling, one that actually reminds him of something in the past. Of  _ Samael, _ actually, because now he knows the name. He knows who he  _ was. _ Was, of course, not  _ is. _

 

Sam realizes the  _ instant  _ he has his memories back that it was all real. Everything was planned. Well, the ghost and death weren't exactly planned, no, but they still turned out near the same, didn't they? While the two Winchesters wouldn't exactly have been the ones to solve the case, the  _ had,  _ of course. 

 

The realization of the fact that Sam was literally  _ meant _ to be a hunter makes him actually vomit, even if it's hours after they get home, when the two are back in their shitty motel. Sam's face is too close to the nasty seat and it smells pretty fucking gross, too. His chest tightens as he vomits. His brother gently rubs his back, because he knows exactly where the younger is aching and what to do about it. The younger takes such comfort in his actions. He knew he would be falling to bits if he were alone, if he didn't have the other to comfort him. It all just stings more and more. 

 

Sam  _ feels  _ it before he actually  _ sees _ it. The books were connected to it, sure, but that wasn't what mattered. Sam's chest and back ache so much more than typical. He feels it with the books, with the room, with  _ everything. _ He thinks that maybe Chuck sees it, too, but he- yeah, he knows the other. His dreams had come down to all of that, to everything going on. Chuck's visions are nothing compared to Sam's. Where Sam's visions always haunted him no matter what, the others were much easier to ingest. It was hauntingly painful. 

 

Lilith was his least favorite reminder. He scoffs at the thought of hooking up with the demon  _ bitch. _ She disgusts him in ways that he shouldn't be disgusted by. Sam laughs at it, mostly because there's nothing better for him to do. He hates doing everything the exact opposite way, as well as telling Chuck not to mention the demon blood to Dean. He hates the reminder that it's wrong, that he shouldn't be doing it. He can feel any and all blood coursing through him. He's not human, after all, not much. He feels so far less human than anything else. 

 

Their conversation was an attempt at smooth, but it was rough on the young Winchester. The demon blood doesn't actually make him feel all that strong. He asks the other, “Do you know about the…  _ not _ demon blood and-”

 

“The angel stuff? Yeah, I know about it all.” Chuck nods along, digging softly. He runs a hand over his mouth. “I also know that you're a prophet of the lord, even if no one's going to say it. Do you know how much trouble that would get me in? To even tell you this is going against what I'm supposed to do. I’ve just barely seen anything about the angels and all that crap.” 

 

Sam softly sighs. “I'm a prophet?” 

 

“Yeah, you're a prophet. And an archangel, Samael. And you're  _ also _ Hell's true king. You're two different gods and-”

 

“Is that it?” 

 

Chuck nods slowly. “Yeah. You know enough. You're not human at all. I just have no idea how you're going to get your grace. I guess you have to find it or whatever. It's in your soul. You've hunkered down to the grace your own soul.” 

 

Sam runs a hand through his hair. He knows he looks rough as can be, but he’ll be damned if he doesn't think this all out. He needs to process it all, and really fucking quick. “Do you know how to?...” 

 

“No. No, I don't. But I also know you're still clinging to humanity, and until you stop, you’ll be considered human by any and all beings, including angels themselves. But we're the only ones that know this.” Chuck doesn't leave room for Sam to think any of that through, not at all. 

 

But Sam does get his fulfillment later on when he toys with not only Lilith but also the archangels. Raphael was an amazing toy. It felt passive-aggressive because at least  _ now _ Sam knows somewhat knows who he is, who he  _ was. _ It's rather unfortunate that Chuck really can't tell him anything else about Samael. 

 

It, however, doesn't help that the next person they meet is actually Sam and Dean's half fucking brother. Sam was young, which meant Adam was, too. He was only nineteen, just a few years younger than the Winchester himself. He’s reminded that his father had a life, one that Sam and Dean were both thrown out of, unable to be a part of in any way possible. It was so much worse than hunting. At least with hunting, the two could somewhat have a feel for it. With Adam, though, he knows that he would never actually have a chance to even  _ attempt  _ to be friends with each other. Adam feels different. His back aches around the younger. 

 

However, Adam is just as fake as the monsters the two hunt. Yeah, yeah, Sam should've listened to his brother. He  _ really _ should've listened to the older. It all hurt even more when he knew it was too late for the Mulligan family. It's an absolute bitch, just like every other fucking thing. 

 

Cases were just getting weirder and weirder. Jimmy Novak was absolutely crazy, too.  _ Everything  _ that happens there is it's own chapter in a book. Watching angels possess bodies, then let go. It's so incredibly  _ batshit crazy. _ Dean's frowns go even more noticed than normal, his worry just as clear as Sam's own. Neither of them want to harm Claire or her mother, not at all, but the angels had no idea how to handle humans, not at all. Almost earning a bullet in his chest from his brother is fucking traumatizing, especially considering roles had been reversed more than once and the same thing had happened. 

 

Sam, especially, had issues with harming any and all humans. That much Cas and Dean both knew. He loved learning about angels, sure, but harming them and all, that was an entirely  _ different  _ story. He hated harming anything. If he could take the pacifist route, he would, even if it cost him his own life - it almost had more than once, and even had with Jake - he was forever ready for that. Castiel knows it, despite not actually  _ knowing _ Sam for long. Anyone the younger Winchester protects, they find out fast that Sam would more than likely kill himself in the process of saving their lives. 

 

They save Claire's mother, which is oddly painful, too. Now both of them have knowledge of demons and angels and all that is supernatural in the world. Leaving the two with that insight just installs another night of fear and worry for Sam. He isn't sure about his brother, but he at least knows what will be keeping him up for nights to come. He’d never forget anyone in a hunt if he could save himself from it. 

 

The panic room isn't something he intends on having actually happen. It had been seeing it for months within his dreams, yeah, sure, but he didn't exactly intend on it actually being something to  _ happen. _ His dreams had never once actually shown Bobby in them. They had shown Dean, sure, but the night before had a million different versions of Bobby all clambered into one dream that seemed to play on a loop with only minuscule changes, as per usual. However, the instant the door shut, everything would suddenly go blank, dream repeating. Sam barely even remembers much of it. 

 

He yells and yells. In fact, Sam was pretty sure he'd damaged his vocal cords from yelling so much. If not, he would be pretty confused. Maybe he could heal himself with his “angel grace”? He didn't know how he would do it, but he knew he  _ could. _ If he, himself, was the container holding the grace, then there had to be a way to get it out  _ without _ killing himself in the process. The whole  _ prophet of the lord _ stuff doesn't exactly make sense to him. If something had been doing him harm, which a lot of things had done him a  _ lot  _ of harm, his father included, then why hadn't they shown up yet? Why hadn't they saved him from the shit that he was in? As long as he existed, the world would be okay, right? 

 

The demon blood clashes with all of his body. He knows it does, that it  _ is. _ He can feel it clashing with his soul. At least the back aching crap actually makes sense now. However, that doesn't stop it all from feeling like he's crashing. At least he knows how to block things, how to survive certain memories that he doesn't want others to see. There are more than just a few, but he can fix himself before anyone has access to anything. If Meg couldn't get access to his childhood, he'd be damned if others could. 

 

But Sam quickly realizes he can only hold his head so high for so long. With the memory blocking crap, sure, he was fine, completely so, he knew how to do it from something deep and old in his soul. However, with all this  _ shit  _ playing through his head, things get messy. Vision after vision, memory after memory, mirage after mirage, nightmare after nightmare, it was all building up to break him. It's a process, one that's far too slow and tedious. 

 

Sam's always had a fear of being locked up, something that he had never once shared with anyone. It made him feel like a little bird, nothing more than an experiment for a mad scientist. He could, quite literally, be a bird locked in a little cage for  _ anyone  _ to toy with. He had a feeling that it was something to do with his future, especially since he had been dreaming about cages and flames since he was nothing more than a child. 

 

This takes the entire cake. He's not only chained down to a table with thick leather straps, but he's also being tortured the entire time. His wrists ache, skin already raw and beginning to tear as he yanks against the restraints. He's panicking in more ways than just one. His chest is exposed, open for all to see, binder discarded. There was no anesthetic, just a demon prodding around his open body. His chest wasn't just  _ exposed, _ it was cut open for anyone and everyone to prod through. Organs were touched, lungs squeezed, and so on. While he  _ knows _ it's nothing more than the demon's blood ringing through him, he also knows it's actually painful and that his wrists are actually getting hurt in this process. It took him much longer to notice than he would care to admit, but he at least noticed at some point. That was what had mattered in this situation. 

 

The next metaphorical trial hurts. He has to stare a miniature version of himself. He was already panting with the terror that had been consuming him. It was eating at his soul, just like the demon blood was. He wasn't yet broken, far from it, but he was near his own metaphorical edge. He could handle a lot more just fine. 

 

But his miniature self holds a lot of bark  _ and  _ bite in their words. Thankfully, they start off calm as can be. “The answer is  _ yes, _ you are hallucinating,” he provides. Wide eyes stare at the smaller. His shaking hadn't yet receeded. The smaller's words are, once again, slowly, spoken letting the older think out each and every syllable. “That's right, it's me. Or, I mean, it’s…  _ You.” _

 

Sam nearly scoffs at it, but he stops himself. “I'm losing my mind.” 

 

The other pursed his lips, humming softly and quickly. It was almost nonexistent, just barely even heard by either. However, the miniature Sam does confirm, “Definitely.” 

 

Sam weakly barks out, “What do you want?” Each and every hallucination was a trial of its own, he had found, so this one obviously was, too. 

 

The shorter self slowly begins to walk around the room, keeping his pace leisurely, despite the anger that radiates off of him. “An explanation,” he explodes with, arms thrown out in anger. His voice wasn't loud. It was actually pretty fucking soft, but the older Sam still flinches against the powerful words. Actually, no, powerful wasn't the word he wants to use there. They just have an angry tone, sort of. “How could you do this to me? I thought we were going to be normal.” 

 

Sam's head slowly lulls to the side as he thinks out how to react here. “I tried,” the Winchester voices softly. “I did. I  _ really _ did. It didn't exactly pan out that way. Sorry, kid.” 

 

_ “Sorry, kid?” _ His short ponytail follows as he swings his head to his older self. That year, John had had some sort of vendetta against Sam about his hair, making sure it was at least at a length that it could still be put up and out of the way, despite the fact that Sam had just wanted it as short as his or Dean's own hair. “That's what you have to say? It's all we ever wanted. We were so close, too! Y-You got away from Dad, from  _ hunting! _ You were gonna be a lawyer and get married, too! Why did you blow it?” 

 

“Listen, okay?” Sam suddenly snaps at the other version of himself, his eyes following to meet the others  _ finally. _ The younger Sam is standing, though, looking so much taller than the other, despite him practically being nothing more than a stick. He had been, what, twelve, maybe? He looks so much older than he actually is. The older, though, is covered in sweat and looks like a fucking grease ball from sweet and strain. His cells were literally tearing each other apart, after all. It not only feels like his insides were being mixed around and fighting with each other, but it also might have actually have been happening, he couldn't know.

 

Sam should’ve known he'd held a rather mean glare even as a child. He was so ready to challenge his older self. Sam remembers then. He had thought that his only escape to everything could actually be violence, that it would maybe help him out some. He was never even taught differently. Not by Dean, not by John, not even by Bobby. Instead, he had just been thrown into it all. Hunting, fighting, poker, all of it was nothing more than his playground. He was a horribly violent teenager after he had stepped up from the victim to the bully. He couldn't tell anyone how many fights he had gotten into over those painful years. It had been trial and error, his father absent and his brother becoming less and less constant. When his father was there, he was horrid, after all. 

 

Sam had changed so drastically since then. He had gone from a bean pole of a young adult to someone that could easily take care of their self. He had buffed up from hunting and could throw an even harder punch, which was sort of a blessing in its own way. He had learned a better way to vent with that frustration and anger, learned about the Winchester Ways, also known as bottling until it kills you. He hadn't failed with it yet, thankfully, so it was fine. He had worse anxiety now, but he knew more about himself, as well as saved not only people, but also monsters. Violence was something he only used when he had to. In a hunter's life, though, it was common. 

 

Sam doesn't elaborate, which is sort of weird. He probably should've, but the younger responds before he has a real chance to. “Yeah. If you hadn't run off with Dean or at least have taken her with you like she had wanted,  then she would still be alive.” 

 

“She would have died if we'd taken her with us.” Sam doesn't want to fight with him anymore. His body was already fighting him, he didn't need a physical version of himself doing it, too. His grip on his knees tighten, knuckles growing white quickly. “I've seen it enough times to know.” 

 

“Did you ever consider an outcome where you just  _ hadn't gone? _ That could have helped.” 

 

Sam slowly shakes his head. His agitation was turning into nothing more than a depressed mess of emotions. They burn inside his chest, tendrils of sadness licking at his heart. He wants to scream but his throat was hurting far too much for that, not to mention he was too drained for it, anyway. He scoffs out the sad answer of, “No, it wouldn't have. We both know it wouldn't have helped at all.” 

 

Thankfully, the tinier version of the youngest Winchester drops it. Instead, he takes up another painful twist of words. “You think Jess would want you to turn into  _ this _ thing of a monster?” He scoffs. “She loved you and she thought you could be good. She made sure you two did only good. You think she would be happy that you're using her as an excuse?” 

 

Dark eyebags decorate the older, his own tired eyes once again moving to focus on the other. Hazel eyes lock, one clearly much sadder than the other. As one holds a fiery passion of anger, the older holds the amber of a dying flame that doesn't look like it'll last very much longer. If things were much different, the one with ashes and weak amber would be putting them out with buckets of drained tears that leave his eyes dry and burning. 

 

He softly supplies an answer. “I'm sorry, okay? I really am. Life never would have turned out that way and we  _ both _ know it. We've both been seeing the future for years. We were just, what, newly fourteen, maybe? We were  _ just _ getting things to even start evening out. We were never once  _ actually  _ going to be normal. We didn't even get to be a kid, okay? We could ever really get away, and as we've both found, we never really will. Grow up.” 

 

His eyes flicker away from the others. Sam's head was aching so terribly. When had it even started hurting? It doesn't help that the younger was suddenly beside him instead of being in front. He blinks a time or two, taking in the smaller version of himself with ocean eyes. 

 

“You're right. Maybe there's… no escape. After all, Samael, how can you run from what's inside you?” 

 

His eyes flicker shut for a split second, replaced with a swirling yellow. It was easily recognized as Azazel's eyes, one of the few Knight's of Hell. However, when they flick again, they're different. It isn't the expected murky yellow or multi-colored hazel. Instead, they're bright purple. They glow within the darkness, soft brown eyelashes decorating the picture. It wraps it all up in a nice little bow, one that Sam doesn't exactly like to be presented with. It makes his nerves stir more than just a little, especially as Sam's back flares with instant pain. At least now he knows that it's not just a coincidence that it always did that around anything not completely human. It was his wings, his grace burning through his soul and body alike, attempting to burn through the vessel and humane bits of himself. The genuine pain brings tears to his eyes. 

 

Sam soon sits on the floor, attempting to just breathe, take a break from everything, even if it was just for a moment or two. He needs to somewhat breathe before getting thrown back into everything. He was overwhelmed with everything. He was still in so much pain, in desperate need of Dean to help relax the muscles. Unfortunately, he knows he won't be getting that any time soon. He was going to die before he got any actual peace. 

 

He jerks his head up at the sound of footsteps, greeted by a blonde. He friend, brows furrowed. She was exactly like the ghost he had seen, just his own minds version of it. A dark splotch of red decorates her front, the disgusting paint of blood. Red overtakes white. If she had survived, it would have most definitely stained the nightgown. Her blonde curls bounce around her head, graceful as can be, despite the fact that was  _ dead. _

 

She's so full of pity, some that's clear in her eyes. Her brows furrow as she whispers, “Oh, Sam, you look just awful.” It would have sounded rude if anyone else had said it, but Mary was someone else, someone different that he should have felt a tad bit more sympathy towards. But it's Mary fucking Winchester, comfortably standing with her son, Samuel fucking Winchester. 

 

He scoffs as he gives the older woman a once-over. He then proceeds to give himself a once over, deeming her grace and himself an absolute fucking mess. Sam sighs inwardly. “Let's hear it. Go ahead.” 

 

The woman's brows furrow a little bit more. Her confusion is just as clear as a puppy’s own, head cocking to the side the tiniest bit. It's minuscule, but at least Sam knows he isn't the only person in the family that does it. He doesn't think he had inherited the learned trait from her, most likely Dean, who had originally gotten it from her, not John nor Bobby. 

 

“What'd you mean, Sam?” 

 

He inhales slowly. Sam's breathing sounds far more like desperate wheezing than actual breathing. It wasn't far off, considering his breathing was  _ already  _ shit, lungs squeezing painfully beneath the binder. It felt too tight now. 

 

The younger thinks out what to answer he with, settling on, “You're disappointed. You never thought I'd…” Sam pauses, inhaling roughly. It's quick and near silent. “Turn out this way,” he reiterates. 

 

Sam moves around the room. Each and every movement looks as if it's playing in slow motion. He doesn't know what to blame now. Maybe his body was just getting shitty from hunting. It didn't help that his bones felt like they were harshly being pulled out of their sockets before being slammed back in, mercy be damned. His tendons felt as if they were all being cut or ripped out. It was jarring the youngest Winchester's entire body. 

 

“I'm a…” He trails off for another moment, collecting his thoughts. He doesn't want any of the thoughts that are being pulled his way. Each and every one make his mind hurt more. “Piss-poor excuse for one of your children.” Sam pauses to inspect the older Winchester. He watches for a reaction, anything at all. She doesn't seem to have even a hint at a reaction, which makes his eyes burn a little more. “Maybe even your heart is broken. I'm not really sure, Mary, I'm not a parent.” He avoids calling her his mom without even noticing. He hadn't even called her his mother when he had been face to face with her ghost. It doesn't help that he knows it was all fake, just his mind showing him obstacle after obstacle and pushing him over the hurdles without mercy. He's never once had a genuine conversation with her and won't any time soon. Eventually, maybe, but not now. He couldn't save her. They had mutually doomed each other to Hell, though Mary was much more to blame than the supposedly fallen archangel. She had doomed her second child just as much as herself, a mutual fuck over that Sam had no idea he was a part of. He huffs out a painful sigh. “Am I close?” 

 

“Not at all.” The blonde's reply is so painfully casual as if it wasn't something that would knowingly be stuck on Sam's mind for possibly months later. The younger sits on the bed, calm as can be, despite the fact that he looked as if he had a foot in the grave. However, Mary stays calm as can be, which is something Sam is incredibly thankful for, even if he doesn't express it. 

 

Mary offers a smile to him. “You're doing the right thing, Sam. You're being brave and practical about all of this, not crazy. I'm actually  _ proud  _ of you.” 

 

It was painful to hear those words. The younger Winchester  _ knows _ that they aren't truthful, nothing more than the demon's blood playing tricks on him. He was only hearing what he wanted to hear from the woman he had yearned for his entire life, needed to appear but never once actually had present. He wanted his mother. He wanted  _ a  _ mother. 

 

“Dean might not understand. I was raised in a line of hunters and I wanted out, too, but life isn't like that. There are going to be tough decisions, ones that involve lots of thinking and ones that barely involve any. But we always do what we have to to get the job done.” Mary tentatively sits beside her son, providing that calm smile he always yearned to sport as a child but never managed to find truthful. It was always a lie. 

 

Her subject seems to change, though it still stays on the lines of what she was harboring beforehand. Mary keeps as good of a calm as she can, which is deathly good. She surely was a hunter, able to without such an easy poker face without cracking in the least. Sam knows its a lie, just like everything else, expect his mind was the one lying to him this time. 

 

“Our family… It is cursed.” She huffs out the admitted truth with a frown. The confirmation was just as painful as any of the other suspected things that became truthful. “But you… You have the power to turn that curse into an amazing gift, Sam.” Her hand softly brushes against his face, pushing back the hair. He sharpens, feeling his own hand in his hair instead of hers. It really does ground him in ways that she hadn't beforehand. However, he relishes in the fake motherly touch. He's so knowingly touch starved that is was painful for even fake Mary to notice and her face to change the slightest bit. She was already actively aware of the fact that he refused to call her his mother. “You can use it against them. You can use it for justice, Sam.” 

 

Sam’s hesitation was clear to anyone, no matter who would've asked or seen. He doesn't want to ask the next question, but it would  _ eventually _ have to be asked at some point. His face is contorted with pain, both mental and physical. He slowly asks, “What’s… What's  _ in me, _ Mary? It's-”

 

“Evil,” she supplies for him. Her nod is slow, knowingly calm. He continues on with her sentence, “and you know it. We both know it. You've known it since you were young.” The only blonde Winchester nods once again. Sam's suddenly reminded of the fact that there could've been another Winchester, another  _ blonde  _ Winchester to join their family. As it seems, blonde Winchesters just cannot survive in the family, at least not while Azazel has any say on that topic. “You can overcome it, though. Not  _ all  _ of it is evil, Sam, unless you make it out to be. You have to do what's right, Samael.” 

 

That last statement makes him flinch, eyes snapping shut. When he opens them again, she's gone. It leaves Sam in a burning silence that doesn't want to be stopped. He really doesn't want to disturb it, either. Well, not yet, at least. He has to force himself to calm because he can do anything, before he attempts to do anything. His own thoughts have enough flames for him. 

 

The Winchester was growing restless, though. He was getting painfully jittery, something that he physically couldn't control. However, his breathing seemed to be somewhat easier, despite the fact that he still wore his binder. His nerves only grow when a darkness courses through his veins. It physically  _ burns  _ through him. It was just under his skin, a purple glowing softly. It just burns even  _ more _ as he attempts to do something about it. 

 

His strained voice comes out painfully desperate. He  _ is  _ desperate. It wasn't like when Alistair has played with his organs like it was stuffing for a rag doll. He hadn't screamed out for Dean or Bobby then. But now, he was calling for anyone's name. Hell, he thinks even an incredibly desperate  _ Gabriel  _ slips out at some point. He knows he yelled for Cas once or twice in the mix, but it was all so incredibly desperate. 

 

For some reason, all of this pain feels genuine, much more so than the earlier pain. It feels like his ghost wings are there, too. Instead, it feels like they're physically ripping the skin from fighting so desperately against the demon blood. It explains the purple. He at least understands now that that was grace. 

 

He screams. Sam feels like physical fire is spreading through his veins. He knew he had a horribly high fever, too. He's screaming so much. The grace and demon blood were contrasting, painfully burdening his vessel, his  _ body. _ It was the only physical thing here about him. He wasn't even sure if the black veins were even real at this point. 

 

Just as suddenly as they began, they all  _ stopped. _ His entire body seizes, breathing uneven and even more painful than it had been before this. His body reels from the sudden stops though he's just pretty sure he actually passed out, not been saved suddenly. His body was still aching, after all, which meant that he most likely had. It would explain why his lungs hurt, the threat of a binder being one that no one should take lightly. He had no doubts about that. 

 

He has to pause, his eyes flickering over to the other in the room. There stood his brother, tall as ever. He glares at the younger. There's no peaceful hint at humanity in his eyes, though Sam has any doubts that he deserved it. He knows he had to have fallen asleep since he was in there. Dean looks so full of pain. Despite the look, it can't be  _ anything  _ compared to what Sam was currently feeling. His mind wanders a million places at once, questioning if this was even real or just another shitty hallucination, just like the rest.

 

While the veins were gone, yes, that doesn't mean the pain was gone. It wasn't as harsh, far much more toned down than it had been. His veins weren't bulging out of his body, which was yet another plus in the darkness being gone. He thinks that maybe he passed out from the overwhelming pain, though he had no idea how harsh it had gotten before he had suddenly gone slack. It all feels too intense, even now, when the pain was so little compared to its earlier version. It doesn't help that when he attempts to lean up, he finds his hands cuffed to the bed, just like earlier. It rubs at the already raw spots, over what had once been bleeding before. 

 

Dean glares harshly, eyes downcast on his brother. He was looking at him as if he wasn't even human, which was true but annoying and something that easily agitates Sam. His gruff voice pipes up, “Why are you doing this to yourself, Sam?” 

 

He wants to play dumb, asking a question he knows the answer to. “Do what to myself?” His throat doesn't feel any better. It feels even rougher than it had after all of his other screaming fests. They half-heartedly burn. 

 

“You know exactly what,” Dean sneers in reply. It was harsh, even for Dean. 

 

And it's noticeable as Sam winces at his brother's sudden yelling. The harsh anger made his stomach burn with anger and fear. He had never felt genuine fear for his brother. He ends up feeling guiltier than he does fearful. “I didn't give myself this…  _ Essence  _ stuff that you think I have, Dean. The demon blood was all just to make me stronger It feels like this is all imprinted in my DNA code or something. It feels like I've done this before. I can't do anything about it.” 

 

Dean's scoff is so harsh against the other's ears, despite it actually being awfully fucking quiet. His glare doesn't dare ease up in the least. “Like you've done it before, huh? Because every fuckin’ kid just goes out searching for demon blood on a Friday night, just being a blood junkie for friggin’ kicks. Yeah, that's  _ so normal, _ isn't it, Sam?” The younger flinches, his body tensing up. He presses himself to the old mattress, an attempt to make himself smaller than he actually is. He isn't laying down, no, not like someone normally would. This was far too tense to be calm. “I know why you do all of this, actually.” 

 

“Just… Please, Dean?” He was doing what he could,  _ begging  _ his brother for something. That was such a rare occurrence when it came out of hunts, and even then it was usually just him begging for the older to snap out of whatever trance he had been put under. “If you and Bobby are going to make me go cold turkey with the demon blood, at least let me do it alone, please?” It's so weak that he wanted to get sick. 

 

The older doesn't give a single  _ frick frack _ as he continues on. His glare wasn't easing up in the least. “It makes you feel stronger, like you're  _ invisible, _ Sam.” the younger knows that the phrase  _ Just like a junkie  _ was right on his tongue. The older slowly starts to pace around the room, withdrawing from the younger. Sam can only stare at the fan in front of him, his eyes burning from the emotions that were currently overwhelming him. “It's like you're just the  _ Big Bad Wolf _ running around in this world or little piggies, ain't it?” Though it was a question, it came out more of a statement than anything. “But… It's just so much more than that, isn't it?” 

 

Sam could hear Dean's smirk without even having to look at him. It wasn't his poker face smirk, instead, it was a genuine one that screamed for whoever was on the receiving end to be absolutely horrified. For some reason, Sam was anchoring onto that fear, mostly because it felt so  _ human. _ Sam's eyes float to the older, desperate to get a peek at his humanity. He doesn't find a trace of it aimed at himself. 

 

“Because… For your entire life, you've felt so different from everyone else. Even different from those nasty monsters we hunted, like you, yourself, wasn't just like one of them. Am I right?” 

 

Sam speaks out one word, that word so full of desperation. “Stop.” Tears painfully pepper his burning eyes. 

 

The word just  _ had _ to be so incredibly  _ weak. _ Dean takes notice of it the instant he hears it. “What, Sam? Oh, did I hit a little too close to home for you?” He not so patiently waits for an answer, for Sam to pull on the restraints. His attempt was fruitless. He  _ knew _ it would be, that it  _ was. _ There was no way out anymore. “But it wasn't different because you were some lonely, suicidal kid. It wasn't because you had a psychotic and weird ball family, either, no. Oh, no, no,  _ no. _ It's something so much deeper than that.” He pauses, just at the head of the frame. He looks down at his brother, slowly leaning down. The pause is torturous, but Sam knows the line all the same. The older doesn't give a single damn that he's in his little brother's face. He softly whispers the much too coy closing statement to the rant, “It’s because you're a  _ monster.”  _

 

“Shut up,” Sam begs. Despite it being the same desperate begging he had been using lately, it comes out so much angrier. It wasn't the broken words that they would've come out as if they would've decided to actually convey his emotions. He was silently thankful for that little blessing in disguise. 

 

“You were  _ always _ a monster. And you  _ always  _ knew.” Dean pushes against the bed frame just enough to heave himself up a tiny bit. “You only feel like being a monster is okay when you suck down more an more of that nasty demon blood, right? It's exactly like poison, full of nothing but absolute  _ evil. _ And you're drinking straight from the evil tap,  _ Hell's  _ tap.” 

 

This time, the word is actually weak. It matches how he feels, so drained and broken. “Dean…” 

 

“You  _ knew _ what you were, too!” His accusation was clear, a finger jutted at him. 

 

“I didn't know I was a demon!” 

 

Dean's lips jut out, his knowingly unbelieving look pointed at the youngest Winchester. “You knew,  _ Samantha. _ And I tried  _ so _ friggin hard to pretend that you were actually family. But you're really nothing more than one of those  _ filthy things _ that we  _ hunt. _ Hell, we aren't even the same species anymore. We never even were. You are nothing more to me than they are.” 

 

Sam's body instantly goes slack, all hints at fighting suddenly gone. He can't let himself relax, not after that statement. That wasn't the Winchester way, not how it should have been. The tears burn even more than earlier. The blur his vision as they collect thickly. “Don't say that to me,” he begs, words so painfully broken, “don't  _ you _ say that to me.” 

 

That pries a sob from him, ones that shakes his entire body. It was all choked down into nothing more than harsh breathing. He gently begs his body to not start. If he starts crying, he doesn't know when he'll stop. That was how it had been for years. Damn the Winchester Way and bottling up all his emotions. 

 

He squeezes his eyes shut, sniffling softly. He squeezes them until the darkness danced with colors. No matter how much he closed his eyes, even behind the veil he wasn't alone. He forces the tears to vanish from his eyes. Sam takes a moment to inhale, forcing down his emotions and the years. Thankfully, they seem to recess. But as soon as Sam opens his eyes to peer at his brother, he finds himself alone. He isn't even sure if it was a hallucination or he had taken more than just a moment to collect himself. Both were possible now. 

 

He closes his eyes, forcing himself into a comatose state. There were no dreams, nothing to hint at his future. He's thankful for the reading comfort of nothing at all. It was so much more relaxing of a sleep than he had had in years. 

 

As soon as he wakes up, though, he's making an escape. He runs from the room, tastefully avoiding his brother any and all ways possible. The entire room buzzes harshly with angel grace. It makes his head ache with the overwhelming sense. The entire place feels like angel grace. However, it was incredibly easy to pin it on Dean. The older  _ always _ brought the stink of angel grace with him, no matter what he did or where he went. He had no idea if he was the only person. That knew it or not, but he certainly could tell. It didn't help that he could also identify it as which angel. Castiel was the easier angel to pin this all on. He  _ knew _ the angel had seen his older brother. 

 

He does, however, feel especially bad for knocking out his godfather in the process of escaping. The man had been his only father figure over the years. He had taken him in every single time Bobby got tired of him, far too annoyed with the youngest Winchester to bother parenting him and telling him right from wrong. Bobby had been the one to do that, not John Winchester. The younger's face twists and his body aches in denial of it all. 

 

Sam makes his way to Ruby. He's so painfully desperate for someone to make him feel worth it somewhat. His brother was far from the go-to option here, far from the okay. Without actually knowing if that was a hallucination or the truth, he can't tell, can't know, can't guarantee that it wasn't and go in for any sort of reassurance. He doesn't care where this offhanded support comes from, even if he knows that it's fake, that it's all actually for Ruby's own personal gain. He knows what he was doing would never be seen as morally acceptable, but if he  _ didn't  _ do this, he was sure that Lilith would become more than just a tiny problem for any and all creatures. His mind was screaming at him that he had to do it. He felt it deep within his should. It was a prophecy, one that he knew he should have seen coming. It was something foretold far before  _ Samuel Winchester's  _ time, probably before time was even considered an actual thing. 

 

Sam isn't actually sure what to think about anything going down. He doesn't trust anyone, not Dean or Ruby. He hadn't trusted either of them for weeks, but now it really was burning at his mind. He knows that he has to fight with his brother. He had seen that in dreams for months beforehand, he knew it was coming. Despite the, it didn't prepare him for the line he had already heard. It broke him just as much as the first time. 

 

_ “You walk out that door…. Don't you  _ **_ever_ ** _ come back.”  _

 

Instead of making a reasonable decision and having his brother join him or anything like that, he just burns a glare at the older, walking out the door with Ruby. He hates the decision with his entire being, but it was the best outcome. 

 

Sam knew  _ exactly  _ what he was doing when he killed Lilith. He knew what would happen afterward. He knew he would have to kill Ruby in the end, that she would attempt to betray him, but he already knew exactly what was going to happen. Despite every single one of his brother’s threats and their tossed up lines to each other, Sam had always known so much more than he was letting on. Sure, he didn't exactly know until he was in the room with the demonic queen herself, but he knew it. It wasn't hard to catch the hint after the room had been yet another thing displayed in his dreams. It had been years upon years ago, but he had seen in nonetheless. 

 

The Cage opens with a blinding flash of white. Within an instant, Sam can feel his back burning. He was shaking, desperately clinging to his brother. Everything seems to overwhelm him. The white, a sudden vision striking him, all of it. It was just too much in one moment. His vision blurs before he promptly passes out, the last thing he sees being his brother and a glimpse of red that he doesn't seem to understand. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2,304 words turned into 7,965
> 
> Also, I am now going to start actually watching the episodes instead of looking at the timelines/summaries and writing from that. I've missed important episodes from season 1 and I'm sure I have for seasons 2, 3, and 4. However, I will tell you guys that I'm incredibly excited about the Cage and soulless Sam stuff. That is going to be an absolute joy of a thing to write about and I'm Hella excited. However, with this process going and the fact that it'll take roughly 14 days to watch all of Supernatural if you play it without taking a single break and don't sleep, upsets might be a little farther apart and possibly a lot smaller, so I'm sorry for that. I will be adding a lot more of Cas and Dean, though!

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: GalehkXigisi or Transheman (May not respond, Tumblr is a buggy bitch)
> 
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> Twitter (SFW): DavenderLav
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> Twitter (NSFW): DaveyWinchester
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> Kik: AdrienSatan
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> Supernatural Amino: Dav


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